P00fe£i 

IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


By  Edmund  Lester  Pearson 


^ “For  him  was  lefere  have  at  his  beddes  hed 
Twenty  bookes,  clad  in  black  or  red.” 


1 


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BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


OTHER  BOOKS  BY  MR.  PEARSON 
(Published  by  The  Macmillan  Company) 

The  Believing  Years.  A book  about  boys. 

The  Voyage  of  the  Hoppergrass.  A book 
of  adventure. 

The  Secret  Book.  About  books  and  read- 
ing. 

Theodore  Roosevelt.  A brief  biography. 

(Published  elsewhere) 

The  Old  Librarian’s  Almanack. 

The  Library  and  the  Librarian. 

The  Librarian  at  Play. 


^ 0 0 £i 

IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


By 

EDMUND  LESTER  PEARSON 


**For  him  was  lefere  have  at  his  beddes  hed 
Twenty  bookes,  clad  in  black  or  red.’* 


NEW  YORK 

Published  by  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1923 

All  rights  reserved 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


Copyright,  1920,  1921  and  1922, 

By  the  national  WEEKLY  CORPORATION 

Copyright,  1923, 

By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.  Published  February,  1923. 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  & Ives  Company 
New  York,  U.  S.  A. 


“When  Christmas  comes  about  again, 
O,  then  I shall  have  money; 

I’ll  hoard  it  up,  and  box  it  all. 

I’ll  give  it  to  my  honey: 

I would  it  were  ten  thousand  pound, 
I’d  give  it  all  to  Sally; 

She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart. 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley.” 


NOTE 

Half  of  these  chapters  are  new.  Of  the  other  six,  some  parts 
have  appeared  elsewhere.  My  acknowledgments  are  therefore 
due  the  Editor  of  The  Nation;  while  to  Mr.  Fuller,  Editor  of 
The  Independent,  and  formerly  of  The  Weekly  Review,  to  Mr. 
Edgett,  Literary  Editor  of  The  Boston  Evening  Transcript,  and 
to  Mr.  Brander  Matthews,  either  for  permission  to  reprint,  or 
for  advice  and  information,  I would  like  to  add  to  my  thanks 
an  expression  of  warm  personal  regard.  “An  American  Eccen- 
tric” is  reprinted,  with  a few  changes,  from  the  Bulletin  of  The 
New  York  Public  Library,  by  consent  of  its  Editor,  upon  whose 
erudition  and  courtesy  I need  not  enlarge. 


E.  L.  P. 


PREFACE 

“Why  don’t  you  write  a book  about  book-collecting?” 
said  he. 

“Well,  the  reason  may  seem  a poor  one,”  I replied, 
“but  I know  no  more  about  it  than  I do  about  operations 
on  Wall  Street.” 

“But  there  must  be  a lot  of  poor  birds,”  he  persisted, 
“who  cannot  buy  rarities  at  hundreds  of  dollars  apiece, 
but  like  to  acquire  books  at  seventy-five  cents  or  a dollar 
or  three.  These  fellows  might  like  a book  written  ex- 
pressly for  themselves.” 

“They  might,”  I admitted. 


CONTENTS 


CRAPTEK  PACK 

I.  The  Literary  Hoax,  1 3 

II.  The  Literary  Hoax,  II 19 

III.  Book  Shops 41 

IV.  Wizards  and  Enchanters 53 

V.  The  Search  for  Curious  Books,  1 69 

VI.  The  Search  for  Curious  Books,  II 87 

VII.  The  Bird 117 

VIII.  With,  ho!  Such  Bugs  and  Goblins,  . . . 129 

IX.  The  Cary  Girls 141 

X.  An  American  Eccentric 157 

XL  The  Lost  First  Folio 177 

XII.  With  Acknowledgments  to  Thomas  De 

Quincey 191 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

Chatterton’s  Holiday-Afternoon 8 

Forged  Letter  of  Queen  Mary 12 

Prince  Charles  Commissions  a Lieutenant 14 

Fortsas  Catalogue,  Title  Page 32 

Fortsas  Catalogue,  Pages  of  Text 34 

The  Aristocrats  Winding  up  the  City 50 

“A  Tam  o’  Shanter  Dog” 52 

Fairy  Wishes  Nowadays 54 

The  Rabbit  Hunters:  An  Aztec  Fragment 56 

“They  didn’t  have  a penny” 58 

The  Cockalorum,  First  Appearance  of 60 

,The  Cockalorum,  Indisposition  of 62 

Seven  Little  Tigers 64 

Boots  for  Horizontal  Rain 66 

The  Learned  Pan  Chao 78 

Pan  Ku 80 

Ou-yang  Hsiu 82 

Han  Yu 84 

Li  Po . . 86 

“The  buffalo  climbing  up  a tree” . . 88 

The  Girl’s  Week-Day  Book 92 

Jolly  Reading  for  Girls,  or  Tomb- View 94 


XI 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


xii 

PAGE 

The  Fate  of  Sabbath-Breakers 96 

The  Gambler  Pirate ; or,  Bessie,  the  Lady  of  the  Lagoon  . 130 

The  Frontier  Angel 132 

The  Double  Daggers,  or  Deadwood  Dick’s  Defiance  . . 134 

Texas  Chick,  the  Southwest  Detective;  or,  Tiger-Lily,  the 

Vulture  Queen 136 

Double  Dan  the  Dastard;  or,  The  Pirates  of  the  Pecot  . 138 

Bill,  the  Blizzard;  or.  Red  Jack’s  Double  Crime  . . . 140 

The  Most  Noble  Lord  Timothy  Dexter 164 

The  Dexter  House 166 

“A  Pickle  for  the  Knowing  Ones”;  Title  Page  . . . . 168 

Dexter  on  Peace;  Page  from  “A  Pickle” 170 

Page  from  “A  Pickle” 172 

Title  Page  of  Mr.  Wm.  Shakespeare’s  Plays,  1623  edition  182 


THE  LITERARY  HOAX,  I 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  LITERARY  HOAX,  I 

Persons  who  have  burned  their  fingers  would  be  glad 
to  have  the  literary  hoax  forbidden  by  law.  Adven- 
turing among  books  would  be  safer — and  tamer.  If  it 
should  be  provided  by  statute  that  all  books  must  follow 
their  title-pages  as  exactly  as  a bottle  of  medicine  must 
follow  its  label,  our  self-esteem  would  get  fewer  wounds, 
but  our  wits  could  be  even  duller.  The  traveller  into 
the  future,  on  H.  G.  Wells’s  “Time  Machine,”  found 
men  from  whose  lives  all  threats  of  danger,  all  but  one, 
had  been  removed.  Their  life  was  safe,  pleasant,  and 
— mightily  stupid. 

Easy  will  be  the  work  of  the  writer  of  book-reviews, 
and  of  his  learned  brother,  the  literary  critic,  when  a hoax 
is  punishable  by  fine  and  imprisonment.  No  band  of 
conspirators  will  dare  to  unite  in  celebrating  the  life  and 
works  of  an  imaginary  Russian  novelist;  the  invention 
of  a fictitious  school  of  poetry,  with  samples  of  its  style, 
will  be  as  illegal  as  printing  counterfeit  treasury  notes; 
all  accounts  of  voyages  to  the  South  Seas  must  be  narra- 
tives of  fact.  And  then  the  writer  of  book-reviews  may 
go  away  fishing  or  golfing,  and  leave  still  more  and  more 
of  his  work  to  nis  amanuensis. 


3 


4 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


The  writer  of  a review  is  supposed  to  approach  a book, 
not  necessarily  with  suspicion,  but  at  least  with  a ques- 
tion. Is  it  what  it  appears  to  be,  or  is  it  parody,  or  satire? 
Has  this  author  ever  visited  the  curious  place  which  he 
describes,  or  known  the  poet  whose  strange  verses  he 
quotes?  If  the  writer  of  reviews  believes  every  statement 
he  finds  in  print,  and  passes  them  on  to  his  own  readers, 
sooner  or  later  he  will  get  bitten.  And  then  he  accepts 
with  good  humor  the  joke  upon  himself,  or  else  (if  his 
self-importance  is  greatly  over-developed)  becomes  furi- 
ously angry  with  the  author,  and  denounces  him  in  words 
of  fire  and  brimstone. 

“I  have  heard,”  said  a Churchman  of  some  rank — I 
think  he  was  a Dean  or  an  Archdeacon,  for  I remember 
that  he  reminded  me  of  Trollope — ‘‘I  have  heard  that 
that  book  is  really  fictitious  from  beginning  to  end!” 

And  he  glared  at  me  as  if  he  intended  to  follow  his 
remark  with  a medieval  curse.  I told  him  that  I had 
heard  the  same  thing  and  from  good  authority. 

“Well !”  he  said,  pounding  the  table,  “the  man  who 
would  do  that  is  a hound ! An  absolute  hound T* 

I could  not  understand  his  wrath;  the  author’s  skill 
had  aroused  my  admiration.  But  the  Archdeacon’s  sense 
of  devotion  had  been  outraged.  The  book  was  “The  Life 
of  John  William  Walshe,”  by  Montgomery  Carmichael 
— one  of  the  most  inexplicable  examples  of  the  literary 
hoax.  There  are  two  outward  signs  of  the  biography  as 
distinguished  from  the  novel,  as  with  many  other  books 
of  fact  compared  with  those  of  fiction:  by  some  ancient 
convention  it  is  supposed  to  be  larger  in  size  and  higher 
in  price.  The  Walshe  book  followed  the  latter  of  these 


THE  LITERARY  HOAX,  I 5 

requirements,  unless  I am  mistaken,  but  not  the  former. 
Its  size  was  that  of  a novel.  It  contained  not  one  atom 
of  satire,  it  was  not  a parody,  and  so  far  as  I,  at  least, 
could  have  discovered  by  internal  evidence,  it  was  what 
it  purported  to  be:  a sober  and  reverent  biography  of  an 
Englishman  dwelling  in  Italy,  a devout  member  of  the 
Church  of  Rome,  and  in  particular  an  enthusiastic  student 
and  pious  follower  of  St.  Francis  of  Assisi. 

But  John  William  Walshe,  his  ancestors  and  his 
family,  his  extraordinary  literary  labors,  the  close  parallel 
of  his  saintly  life  to  that  of  his  exemplar,  St.  Francis, 
and  finally  his  death,  in  the  odor  of  sanctity  and  under 
the  Papal  blessing,  were  all  of  them  invented  by  Mr. 
Carmichael — a member  of  the  British  consular  service 
in  Italy,  and  the  author  of  a number  of  volumes,  mainly 
works  of  fact.  Why  my  Archdeacon  could  not  have  re- 
joiced at  the  creation  of  an  imaginary  character,  whose 
piety  he  so  much  admired,  is  hard  to  explain,  except 
on  the  ground  that  his  self-esteem  had  been  hurt  because 
he  had  been  fooled. 

There  is  only  the  most  distant  relationship  between 
the  author  of  the  literary  hoax  and  the  practical  joker — 
that  Eighteenth  Century  wag  who  thought  it  a devil  of  a 
fine  trick  to  win  a bet  from  his  friends  by  some  prank 
which  inflicted  physical  pain  or  mental  humiliation  upon 
his  victim.  He  was  the  spiritual  grandchild  of  the  me- 
dieval humorist.  And  he  in  turn,  as  he  ran  away  with  the 
miller’s  wife,  never  thought  the  cup  of  joy  was  really 
full  unless  the  miller,  reduced  to  his  shirt,  was  left 
stuck  fast  in  a bog,  or  wildly  waving  his  heels  from  a 
snow-bank  into  which  he  had  been  plunged  head  first. 


6 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


Theodore  Hook  was  the  type  of  the  practical  joker  of 
a century  ago,  and  the  charming  flights  of  his  fancy  may 
be  appreciated  by  reading  about  his  Berners  Street  Hoax, 
which  is  described,  with  similar  triumphs,  in  Bram 
Stoker’s  interesting  book  “Famous  Impostors.” 

Undergraduate  hoaxes,  at  their  best,  are  on  a higher 
level  of  wit;  they  are  frequently  aimed  at  pompous  beings 
in  superior  station,  and  for  that  reason  could  by  no 
means  be  spared.  The  classic  example  is  the  famous 
Oxford  “rag,”  when  some  students  impersonating  the 
“Crown  Prince  of  Abyssinia”  with  his  suite,  were  actually 
received  on  board  H.M.S.  Dreadnaught  with  proper 
salute  of  guns  and  all  other  ceremony. 

In  fiction,  the  college  hoax  is  often  elaborate,  and 
designed  for  the  mystification  or  embarrassment  of  one 
man.  Thus,  in  Mr.  E.  F.  Benson’s  story  of  Cambridge 
University,  “The  Babe,  B.A.,”  it  is  a collegian  with  a 
snobbish  reverence  for  royalty  who  is  made  to  suffer  pangs 
of  jealousy  by  the  spectacle  of  Queen  Victoria  herself, 
accompanied  by  a Lady-in-Waiting,  entering  another 
collegian’s  rooms  to  take  tea.  As  the  snob,  fairly  quiver- 
ing with  ecstasy  and  envy,  breathes  the  prayer  “God 
Bless  Her !”  he  is  wholly  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  he  is 
imploring  Divine  favor  upon  merely  a gifted  member 
of  the  college  dramatic  club. 

In  one  of  Mr.  C.  Al.  Flandrau’s  uncollected  stories, 
an  undergraduate  at  Harvard,  struggling  under  the  bur- 
den of  a sonnet  which  he  has  to  write  for  a course  in 
English  composition,  has  wearied  his  classmates  by  his 
idea  for  an  opening  line.  The  tragic  death  of  a great 
poet  strikes  him  as  a proper  subject  for  his  own  first 


THE  LITEIT\RY  HOAX,  I 7 

attempt  at  poetry ; so  he  goes  about  asking  everyone  how 
the  phrase  “Shelley  is  dead!”  would  do  as  a beginning. 
He  repeats  the  question  so  often  that  his  friends  take 
steps  to  inform  him  that  they  have  heard  enough  about 
the  lamentable  event.  His  life,  for  weeks,  is  filled  with 
reminders  of  the  poet’s  death,  but  at  last  he  comes  to  feel 
that  humor  has  reached  its  limits.  He  is  sitting  in  the 
Hollis  Street  Theatre,  when  an  usher  comes  up  with  an 
urgent  message  requiring  him  to  drive  at  full  speed  to 
the  Massachusetts  General  Hospital.  A cab  takes  him 
there  in  a few  minutes;  he  arrives  full  of  apprehension 
lest  someone  he  knows  may  have  been  the  victim  of  an 
accident.  But  on  giving  his  name,  he  is  handed  a note 
by  an  unsympathetic  nurse — a note  which  contains  only 
the  words : “Shelley  is  dead !” 


“The  Cobbler  of  Koepenick”  should  be  added  to  Mr. 
Stoker’s  gallery  of  illustrious  impostors.  Morally  he  was 
no  better  than  a swindler;  the  object  of  his  masquerade 
was  to  loot  a town  treasury.  His  method,  however — the 
assumption  of  a Prussian  captain’s  uniform,  which  caused 
everybody  to  obey  his  orders — convulsed  the  whole  world 
with  laughter,  and  satirized  German  militarism  as 
nothing  else  has  ever  succeeded  in  doing. 

Such  personages,  however,  are  but  distantly  related 
to  the  author  of  a literary  hoax.  It  is  well  to  distinguish 
between  the  imposture  (an  ugly  word  with  the  suggestion 
of  fraud  for  purposes  of  gain),  the  literary  forgery  and 


8 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


the  literary  hoax.  There  is  a severe  and  ancient  type 
of  moralist  who  would  put  them  all  together  in  one 
batch — he  would  also  throw  in  the  novel,  as  a book  con- 
taining nothing  but  “lies.”  I was  shocked  and  amused, 
a few  years  ago,  to  find  my  name  in  the  catalogue  of  the 
Boston  Public  Library,  under  the  head:  “Impostors — 
Literary.”  While  I was  wondering  if  this  was  an 
attempt  at  self-expression  on  the  part  of  some  acidulated 
cataloguer,  I noticed  that  I was  for  once,  and  by  the 
only  possible  method,  in  the  distinguished  company  of 
Thomas  Chatterton,  and  decided  that  I was  being  com- 
plimented beyond  all  deserving. 

Time  removes  many  fancied  offences.  Chatterton’s 
persistence  that  he  was  not  the  author  of  the  inventions 
which  he  put  forward  as  the  work  of  a medieval  monk 
is  as  hard  to  explain  as  ever.  But  nobody  sympathizes 
with  Walpole’s  anger  about  it.  Today  Chatterton  in- 
spires wonder  and  pity — these  and  a vague  belief  that  he 
was  a great  poet,  driven  to  suicide  by  cruelty  and  neglect. 
I say  a vague  belief,  because  Chatterton  is  one  of  those 
literary  figures  whose  name  and  fate  are  known  to  every- 
one, his  writings  virtually  to  no  one.  As  Senator  Lodge 
says,*  “there  is  a general  conviction  that  he  was  a genius, 
although  it  is  doubtful  if  anyone  except  his  editor  or 
biographer  could  be  found  who  could  quote  a line  of  his 
works.”  Except  among  professors  of  English  literature, 
and  not  always  with  this  exception,  it  would  be  perfectly 
safe  to  offer  a reward  to  anyone  who  could  offhand  recite 
one  stanza  written  by  Chatterton. 

He  began,  when  fourteen,  with  the  forgery  of  an 

• In  “Certain  Accepted  Heroes.” 


Chatterton’s  Holiday-Afternoon,  by  W.  R.  Morris 


• 


THE  LITERARY  HOAX,  I 9 

armorial  blazon  and  a genealogical  table  to  prove  that 
one  Mr.  Burgum,  a pewterer  of  Bristol,  was  a descendant 
of  the  noble  family  of  De  Bergham.  (How  could  a 
pewterer  be  anything  but  absurd?)  This  tickled  Mr. 
Burgum  so  much  that  he  rewarded  Chatterton  with  five 
shillings;  probably  it  did  not  completely  demoralize  him, 
as  the  news  did  John  Durbeyfield,  the  father  of  Tess, 
when  the  antiquarian  told  him  that  he  was  a member 
of  the  ancient  and  knightly  family  of  the  D’Urbervilles! 
But  Chatterton’s  precocious  talent  and  love  of  medie- 
valism needed  no  five-shilling  tips.  There  were  left  to 
him  less  than  four  years  of  life,  but  these  were  enough 
for  the  production  of  a considerable  body  of  acknowl- 
edged poetry  (far  above  the  ability  of  the  usual  school- 
boy) as  well  as  the  spurious  works  of  “T.  Rowlie,”  the 
Fifteenth  Century  priest,  which  provoked  the  extensive 
“Rowley  Controversy,”  angered  and  confused  some 
learned  men,  and  fixed  Chatterton’s  name  as  one  always 
to  be  included  in  a history  of  English  literature.  Good 
critics  find  many  passages  of  beauty  and  power  in  the 
Rowley  poems;  to  me  they  are  unreadable,  and  I am 
consoled  to  note  that  Palgrave  omits  Chatterton  alto- 
gether from  his  “Golden  Treasury.”  In  more  inclusive 
anthologies,  however,  the  custom  seems  to  be  to  give  one 
example  of  his  verse;  this  is  the  treatment  accorded  in 
such  recent  collections  as  Sir  Henry  Newbolt’s  “English 
Anthology,”  and  in  Mr.  Le  Gallienne’s  “Book  of  Eng- 
lish Verse.” 

Before  he  was  eighteen  years  old,  hungry  and  in 
despair,  Chatterton  poisoned  himself  with  arsenic — and 
died  that  most  distressing  death.  His  spirit  came  back, 


10 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


more  than  a century  later,  and  stood  beside  another  poet, 
Francis  Thompson,  and  saved  him  from  self-destruction. 
Thompson’s  reference  to  this  may  be  found  in  Wilfrid 
Blunt’s  “My  Diaries.” 

No  form  of  literary  hoax  seems  to  leave  a permanent 
legacy  of  anger  or  annoyance.  No  one  thinks  that 
Hawthorne  was  a fraud  because  he  wrote,  in  the  preface 
to  his  greatest  novel,  that  he  had  discovered  documents 
relating  to  Hester  Prjmne,  together  with  the  Scarlet 
Letter  itself,  in  the  attic  of  the  Salem  Custom  House. 
Poe’s  ballpon  hoax  is  not  counted  against  him  today — 
it  is  little  remembered — although  it  doubtless  ruffled 
some  readers  of  the  New  York  S>un  in  April,  1844.  They 
were  avenged,  by  the  way,  more  than  sixty  years  later, 
when  the  Sun  itself  devoted  more  than  a column  of  its 
editorial  page  to  serious  discussion  of  a literary  hoax. 
Such  writers  as  the  ones  I have  mentioned,  together  with 
some  lesser  men  referred  to  in  the  next  chapter,  perpe- 
trated in  various  forms,  the  literary  hoax.  Their  purpose 
was  not  to  deceive  anyone  to  his  harm,  nor  were  they 
seeking  unfair  gain  for  themselves. 

Next  come  the  literary  forgers, — a different  crew. 
These  folk  produce,  say,  some  spurious  manuscripts,  sup- 
posed to  be  in  the  handwriting  of  a genuine  literary  man 
or  historical  personage.  These  they  sell,  under  misrepre- 
sentation, to  a wealthy  collector.  The  victims  may  have 
recourse  to  law,  but  often  they  have  to  get  along  without 
sympathy.  The  most  grievous  case  was  that  of  the 
eminent  French  mathematician,  M.  Michel  Chasles,  who 
between  1861  and  1870  bought  more  than  twenty-seven 
thousand  forgeries,  and  paid  out  150,000  francs  for  them. 


THE  LITERARY  HOAX,  I ii 

A man  with  a meagre  education,  colossal  assurance,  and 
a strong  right  arm  concocted  these  forgeries,  and  he  must 
have  worked  at  an  average  rate  of  about  eight  a day  over 
a long  period  of  years.  His  name  was  Vrain-Denis  Lucas. 
The  documents  and  letters  included  letters  from  Pascal 
(by  the  hundred),  from  Shakespeare  (twenty-seven  of 
them),  hundreds  from  Rabelais,  and  others  from  Newton, 
from  Louis  XIV,  from  the  Cid,  from  Galileo.  But  these 
were  only  the  less  remarkable  items  of  the  collection ; the 
gems  included  letters  from  Sappho,  Virgil,  Julius  Caesar, 
St.  Luke,  Plato,  Pliny,  Alexander  the  Great,  and  Pom- 
pey!  There  was  a letter  from  Cleopatra  to  Caesar,  dis- 
cussing their  son  Cesarion;  a note  from  Lazarus  to  St. 
Peter;  and  a chatty  little  epistle  from  Mary  Magdalene 
to  the  King  of  the  Burgundians.  Why  did  he  neglect 
to  include  the  first  A.L.S.  recorded  in  history — the  letter 
from  David  to  Joab,  which  he  sent  by  the  hand  of  Uriah? 
Consider  that  these  were  all  written  on  the  same  kind  of 
paper,  not  on  parchment,  and  that  all  of  them,  even  those 
from  Biblical  personages,  were  written  in  French.  Re- 
member that  they  were  eagerly  purchased  and  their 
authenticity  warmly  defended,  by  one  of  the  leading 
geometricians  of  his  time,  and  then  believe,  if  you  can, 
that  development  of  the  mathematical  faculty  has  any- 
thing to  do  with  the  reasoning  power,  or  even  with  com- 
mon sense. 

In  recent  years,  there  flourished  in  Scotland  one 
“Antique”  Smith,  who  specialized  in  Scotch  literary  and 
historical  manuscripts.  A gentleman  has  told  me  that 
he  remembers  helping,  with  great  care  and  reverence,  to 
convey  for  the  owner  a portfolio  of  Smith’s  forgeries  for 


12 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


inspection  by  another  connoisseur  and  collector.  For  one 
of  Smith’s  victims  was  a most  worthy  and  benevolent 
gentleman,  president  of  a famous  American  library.  Not 
long  afterwards,  the  imposture  was  discovered,  and  the 
villain  went  to  his  punishment — as  you  may  read  in  “The 
Riddle  of  the  Ruthvens,”  by  William  Roughead,  a vol- 
ume of  fascinating  essays  on  various  kinds  of  rascality. 
You  will  thank  me  for  telling  you  about  it,  even  if  you 
have  to  be  at  pains  to  secure  it.  To  obtain  some  books 
requires  a little  more  trouble  than  a telephone  call  to  the 
nearest  department-store.  Though  I shall  have  no  objec- 
tion if  you  can  get  this  one  of  mine  with  no  more  effort 
than  that. 

As  you  and  I do  not  belong  to  the  class  of  young 
literary  gentlemen  (some  of  them  are  fifty-five!)  who 
profess  diabolism,  and  deny  violently  that  they  have  any 
morals  whatever,  we  are  at  liberty  to  shake  our  heads 
over  the  literary  forgers,  and  pronounce  them  to  be 
wicked  men. 

Yet  Andrew  Lang,  in  his  “Books  and  Bookmen,”  writes 
of  them  with  some  toleration.  They  had  to  be  clever,  he 
admits.  How  young  many  of  them  were;  how  venerable 
and  learned  were  the  men  they  tricked ! Lang  thinks  that 
the  motives  of  the  literary  forger  are  curiously  mixed, 
but  that  they  are  either  piety,  greed,  “push,”  or  love  of 
fun.  At  first,  literary  forgeries  were  pious  frauds  in  the 
interest  of  a church,  a priesthood,  or  a dogma.  Then 
came  the  greedy  forgers,  who  were  out  merely  for  gain 
(Vrain  Lucas?).  Next  the  forgers  who  were  inspired  by 
what  he  calls  “push”;  they  “hope  to  get  a reading  for 
poems,  which  if  put  forth  as  new,  would  be  neglected.” 


A forgery  by  “Antique”  Smith ; Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  to  an 
Edinburgh  Printer 


THE  LITERARY  HOAX,  I 13 

There  is  some  reason  for  this  belief;  always  there  are 
readers  who  think  more  highly  of  a dull  thing  written 
three  centuries  ago  than  of  any  much  more  interesting 
but  modern  production.  Some  antiquarians,  and  prob- 
ably more  than  a few  book-collectors  and  experts  on 
various  bibliographical  topics,  belong,  by  the  way,  to  this 
class.  Never  in  their  lives  have  they  formed  an  opinion 
of  their  own  about  the  merits  of  any  book;  literature  is 
for  them  purely  a matter  of  tradition,  of  other  men’s 
judgments.  They  can  repeat  the  ancient  catchwords, 
such  as  “old  books  are  best,”  they  can  talk  of  “the  safe 
judgment  of  time,”  and  the  “ephemeral  character  of 
present-day  literature.”  As  a matter  of  fact,  they  are 
merely  lacking  in  taste  and  in  courage;  and  are  too  dull 
ever  to  have  an  opinion  by  themselves.  They  care  little 
for  literature  as  a creative  art,  but  are  concerned  solely 
with  its  mechanics.  Discussing  for  hours  a misplaced 
signature  in  a quarto  “Hamlet,”  their  faces  become  blank 
if  someone  mentions  Osric.  If  the  mistake  is  made  of 
telling  them  who  Osric  is,  their  contempt  for  the  man  who 
is  interested  in  such  things  is  actually  funny.  They  are 
embarrassed  and  frightened  in  the  presence  of  creative 
work,  but  their  intellects  will  grind  and  churn  forever 
over  the  humdrum  routine  of  some  ancient  printing 
house. 

Finally,  in  Lang’s  classification,  there  are  the  forgers 
who  are  merely  playful,  or  at  least  playful  at  the  be- 
ginning. He  places  William  Henry  Ireland’s  Shake- 
spearean forgeries  (of  which  the  best  known  is  the  tragedy 
of  “Vortigem”)  in  this  class;  while  the  Shakespearean 
forgeries  of  Payne  Collier  are  more  difficult  to  explain. 


14  BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 

and  seem  to  have  been  the  result  of  motives  too  mixed 
to  be  comprehensible.  Sir  Sidney  Lee,  it  may  be  added, 
in  his  comments  upon  this  subject,  does  not  seem  to  have 
been  impressed  by  the  “playful”  character  of  Ireland’s 
and  Collier’s  forgeries.* 

Readers  who  look  into  Mr.  J.  A.  Farrer’s  “Literary 
Forgeries”  will  find  it  an  extensive  treatment  of  this  sub- 
ject. Especially  interesting  is  the  chapter  on  George 
Psalmanazar,  “the  famous  Formosan,”  who  forged  his 
name,  the  place  of  his  nativity,  and  even  the  piety  which 
so  impressed  Dr.  Johnson.  In  Andrew  Lang’s  introduc- 
tion to  Mr.  Farrer’s  book  there  is  an  amusing  recipe  for 
those  who  wish  to  forge  a Border  Ballad,  as  well  as  a 
confession  of  the  difficulties  which  he  got  into  from  his 
own  minor  and  playful  forgeries  in  writing  his  historical 
novel,  “The  Monk  of  Fife.”  He  “forged”  certain  old 
records,  he  writes,  with  the  result  that  the  book  confused 
a learned  medievalist,  who  “could  not  make  out  whether 
he  had  a modern  novel  or  a Fifteenth  Century  document 
in  his  hands,  while  the  novel-reading  public  exclaimed, 
‘Oh,  this  is  a horrid  real  history!’  ” 

Even  a forgery  may  be  denounced  with  a severity  out 
of  all  proportion  to  the  harm  which  has  been  done.  Sir 
Walter  Scott  was  himself  deceived  by  one  of  the  numer- 
ous forgers  of  old  ballads.  But  had  he  been  undeceived, 
says  Mr.  Farrer,  he  would  only  have  laughed.  Sir  Walter 
is  quoted  in  Mr.  Farrer’s  book  as  writing:  “There  is  no 
small  degree  of  cant  in  the  violent  invectives  with  which 

* Mr.  Lucas’s  book-dealer,  Mr.  Bemerton,  in  “Over  Benaerton’s,”  col- 
lected literary  forgeries,  and  had  actually  read  “Vortigern.” 


^ ' • I 

'h.itul  /t-'"-  J /iM.'f-  Acunf-f'-Ut"-. 

L.-,  Jr.U.t  .uja.. 

iau  Hc<(nn(x  li/inotnp  \(  iti>  h-nJlyuiui  j 

JlJ.fct.ltd  * i 


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,!,{„■  L-iu >'.<(,(  fuui  lya(ly\t,c{ 

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iLiOnanf.-dnu  Ifk,cffur7ncc/ n,  tU,  Aa;i„uu(  | 

, / i-itui  ft  ) 

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4 Hit  hn(  ’ : 


X 


Prince  Charles  commissions  a lieutenant,  by  the  hand  of  “Antique  ’ 

Smith 


THE  LITERARY  HOAX,  I 15 

impostors  of  this  nature  have  been  assailed.  If  a young 
author  wishes  to  circulate  a beautiful  poem  under  the 
guise  of  antiquity,  the  public  is  surely  more  enriched  by 
the  contribution  than  injured  by  the  deception.” 


THE  LITERARY  HOAX,  II 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  LITERARY  HOAX,  II 

TO  those  who  have  not  stopped  to  think  (and  such 
persons  exist,  here  and  there,  even  among  bookmen) 
the  difference  may  not  be  apparent  between  the  forgery 
and  the  hoax.  It  is,  first  and  foremost,  the  spirit  of  the 
thing.  The  supposed  value  of  the  preposterous  letters 
which  Vrain  Lucas  sold  to  M.  Chasles  lay  chiefly  in  the 
idea  that  they  were  in  autograph.  M.  Chasles  was  so 
stupid  that  he  deserves  little  sympathy;  but  Vrain  Lucas 
was  a swindler  nevertheless — an  uncommon  swindler — 
and  from  a legal  point  of  view,  quite  properly  was  sent 
to  jail.  The  forger’s  motive  was  to  make  money. 

But  the  “misleading”  title-page  of  a hoax  is  seldom 
written  in  order  to  deceive  the  reader  to  his  harm;  there 
is  no  attempt  to  amass  unlawful  gain  for  the  author;  and, 
finally,  it  is  a long-established  literary  convention.  Its 
object  may  be  playful ; it  may  be  “to  give  artistic  veri- 
similitude to  a bald  and  unconvincing  narrative”;  or  it 
may  be  for  reasons  even  more  serious.  A writer  ven- 
turing outside  his  usual  field  may  wish  his  readers  to 
approach  his  book  without  preconceived  opinions.  The 
author’s  name  may  appear  as  editor.  Sometimes  the 
“deception”  begins  and  ends  on  the  title-page,  in  such 
conventional  form  as  this : “Micah  Clarke ; his  statement 
as  made  to  his  three  grandchildren,  Joseph,  Gervas,  and 

19 


20 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


Reuben,  during  the  hard  winter  of  1734;  wherein  is  con- 
tained A Full  Report  of  Certain  Passages  in  his  Early 
Life,  together  with  some  Account  of  his  Journey  from 
Havant  to  Taunton  with  Decimus  Saxon  in  the  Summer 
of  1685.  Also  of  the  Adventures  that  Befell  them  during 
the  Western  Rebellion,  & of  their  Intercourse  with 
James,  Duke  of  Monmouth,  Lord  Grey,  and  other  Persons 
of  Quality;  Compiled  Day  by  Day,  from  his  Own  Narra- 
tion, by  Joseph  Clarke,  & Never  Previously  set  Forth 
in  Print.  Now  for  the.  First  Time  Collected,  Corrected, 
and  Rearranged  from  the  Original  Manuscripts  by  A. 
Conan  Doyle.  . . 

Or  the  author’s  name  may  not  appear  at  all : “Personal 
Recollections  of  Joan  of  Arc  by  the  Sieur  Louis  de  Conte 
(her  page  and  secretary).  Freely  translated  out  of  the 
ancient  French  into  modern  English  from  the  original 
unpublished  manuscript  in  the  national  archives  of  France 
by  Jean  Frangois  Alden.”  Mr.  Paine  writes  that  Mark 
Twain  said:  “I  shall  never  be  accepted  seriously  over  my 
own  signature.  People  always  want  to  laugh  over  what  I 
write  and  are  disappointed  if  they  don’t  find  a joke  in  it. 
This  is  to  be  a serious  book.  It  means  more  to  me  than 
anything  I have  ever  undertaken.  I shall  write  it  anony- 
mously.” 

Yet  as  early  in  the  Joan  of  Arc  as  the  seventh  page, 
there  is  a sentence  which  should  have  given,  and  probably 
did  give,  the  clew  as  to  authorship. 


21 


THE  LITERARY  HOAX,  II 

There  have  been  three  notable  examples  of  the  literary 
hoax  within  a few  years.  Each  was  justified  by  its  wit, 
and  any  reader  to  whom  this  quality  is  not  sufficient 
excuse  for  a book  might  find  a still  further  defence 
in  that  the  satire  had  a most  useful  effect.  “Spectra; 
a Book  of  Poetic  Experiments,”  by  “Anne  Knish”  and 
“Emanuel  Morgan”  was  published  in  1916 — when  maga- 
zines, especially  the  freak  magazines,  were  announcing 
the  birth  of  some  new  “school”  of  art  or  poetry  nearly 
every  month.  Most  of  these  schools  had  the  same  relation 
to  art  that  the  Holy  Rollers  have  to  religion;  they  fur- 
nished amusement  to  the  irreverent  and  unnecessarily 
troubled  the  extreme  conservatives.  The  curious  thing 
about  the.'se  schools,  cults,  and  coteries  is  the  utter  lack  of 
humor  with  which  they  are  acclaimed  by  their  devotees 
and  dupes.  The  extremists  among  those  who  sought  free- 
dom in  art  and  literature  soon  passed  over  into  anarchy ; 
having  thrown  all  rules  of  composition  overboard,  there 
was  no  good  reason  why  a blotter  upon  which  a bottle  of 
red  ink  had  been  upset  should  not  be  framed  and  admired 
as  a picture;  while  printer’s  “pi”  could  be — and  in  some 
magazines  often  is — printed  and  published  as  “poetry.” 
Mr.  Richard  Aldington,  in  a review  of  James  Joyce’s 
“Ulysses,”  went  further  in  honesty  than  most  admirers 
of  that  book;  he  said  that  from  the  manner  of  Mr.  Joyce 
to  Dadaism  is  but  a step  and  from  Dadaism  to  imbecility 
is  hardly  that.  Many  of  the  reviewing  periodicals,  the 
“radical”  ones,  of  course,  in  particular,  in  a fear  of  not 
- seeming  modern,  surrendered  their  common  sense  and 
paltered  with  the  good  faith  they  owed  their  readers,  by 
talking  tolerantly  and  often  with  admiration  about  things 


22 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


which  they  knew  were  travesties  of  art.  The  publication 
of  “Spectra”  showed  how  easy  it  is  to  fall  into  a trap 
when  merit  counts  for  nothing  compared  with  a supposed 
“novelty”  or  a spirit  of  revolt. 

Two  poets,  Witter  Bynner  and  Arthur  D.  Ficke,  mas- 
queraded as  Emanuel  Morgan  and  Anne  Knish.  Their 
Spectrist  school  of  poetry  arose  from  the  name  of  a dance 
on  a theatre  programme:  “La  Spectre  de  la  Rose.”  Hav- 
ing dined,  and  being  in  the  mood  which  Milton  allows  to 
the  lyric  poet,  Messrs.  Bynner  and  Ficke  took  their  cue 
from  the  word  “Spectre”  and  there  and  then  founded  the 
Spectrist  school.  The  elaborate  explanation  of  the  theory 
of  their  art,  and  the  poems  themselves,  put  forth  under 
the  heavy  names  of  Morgan  and  Knish,  resulted  in  an 
alarming  rally  of  modernists  and  rebels.  Letters  and  in- 
quiries, praise  for  the  new  poetry,  began  to  pour  in.  Then 
Mr.  Ficke  went  off  to  the  war,  leaving  Mr.  Bynner  with 
the  whole  school  on  his  hands.  He  had  to  answer  letters, 
sit  at  luncheons  of  poets  and  listen  with  a straight  face 
to  praise  of  the  new  “method.”  When  the  hoax  was  ex- 
plained, some  of  the  admirers  and  devotees  added  gratui- 
tous amusement  by  sticking  grimly  to  their  guns,  and 
insisting  that  the  burlesque  poetry  was  really  very  good, 
and  that  they  had  never  been  fooled,  or  that  if  they  had, 
they  were  somehow  right  all  the  time.  That  is  the 
advantage  of  abolishing  all  rules  in  art : nobody  can  ever 
prove  you  wrong  on  any  subject. 

The  Spectrist  school  is  dead,  and  like  many  other 
schools,  dead  or  dying — Futurism,  Vorticism,  Cubism, 
Dadaism,  Polyphonic  Prose — it  may  not  of  itself  have 
been  humorous,  but  it  was  the  cause  of  humor  in  others. 


THE  LITERARY  HOAX,  II  23 

Gertrude  Stein’s  “Tender  Buttons”*  is  an  extremely 
serious  book,  but  its  permanent  value  in  literature  (un- 
less, as  seems  probable,  it  inspired  large  parts  of 
“Ulysses”)  is  that  it  provoked  some  of  the  best  of  Don 
Marquis’s  satire. 

The  authors  and  scholars  who  joined  in  celebrating 
the  Larrovitch  Centenary  were  so  numerous  that  the  re- 
sulting volume  is  probably  unique.  One  or  two  origi- 
nated the  hoax,  but  a large  group  carried  it  on  and 
perfected  it.  Designed  at  the  beginning,  I think  I have 
heard,  to  rebuke  the  painful  omniscience  of  one  enthusiast 
in  Russian  literature,  this  little  tribute  is  called  “Feodor 
Vladimir  Larrovitch;  an  Appreciation  of  his  Life  and 
Works.”  The  editors  are  William  George  Jordan  and 
Richardson  Wright;  it  was  published  by  the  Authors 
Club  of  New  York  in  1918.  To  this  volume  Clinton 
Scollard  contributed  a sonnet,  and  there  are  scholarly 
essays  and  personalia  about  the  great  Russian  by  Pro- 
fessor Franklin  Giddings  and  Dr.  Titus  Munson  Coan. 
The  bibliographies  add  to  the  charm  of  the  book,  but 
perhaps  the  most  touching  thing  of  all  is  the  picture  of 
“a  pressed  flower”  from  the  grave  of  Larrovitch  at  Yalta, 
which  is  preserved  and  framed  on  the  walls  of  the  Authors 
Club.  As  with  “Spectra,”  the  hoax  was  inspired  by 
a pose,  a form  of  literary  affectation;  it  cleverly  satir- 
izes the  tendency  in  England  and  America  to  accept 
any  Russian  writer  at  whatever  estimate  some  chortling 
enthusiast  likes  to  put  upon  him.  Max  Beerbohm’s  “Kol- 

• One  of  my  prized  first  editions,  picked  up  in  the  year  of  its  publica- 
tion for  a mere  song — fifty  cents.  Dr.  Rosenbloom  has  more  than  once 
offered  me  sixty-five  cents  for  it,  but  I shook  my  head.  It  was  published 
in  May,  1914.  Some  say  it  brought  on  the  war. 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


24 

niyatsch,”  in  his  book  “And  Even  Now,”  is  an  earlier 
essay  upon  the  theme.  Kolniyatsch,  the  last  of  a long 
line  of  rag-pickers,  acquired  a passionate  alcoholism  at 
the  age  of  nine,  murdered  his  grandmother  when  he  was 
eighteen,  and  spent  the  rest  of  his  life  in  an  asylum, 
writing  poems  and  plays.  His  friends  and  relatives,  as 
well  as  the  officials,  adopting  the  world’s  timid  philoso- 
phy, called  him  insane,  but  Max  Beerbohm,  who  was  able 
to  read  his  works  in  the  original  Gibrisch,  would  make 
no  such  clumsy  classification. 

But  “The  Cruise  of  the  Kawa”  was  the  most  influential 
hoax  of  them  all.  Little  pretence  was  made  at  the 
beginning;  it  was  more  a burlesque  than  a hoax.  It 
absolutely  put  a stop  to  the  flood  of  amorous  South 
Sea  books;  nobody  dared  write  in  that  vein  afterwards. 
The  picture  of  the  nest  of  the  Fatu-Liva  bird  carried  the 
burlesque  so  far  that  the  nature  of  the  book  instantly  be- 
came apparent  to  anyone  who  chanced  to  open  it  at  that 
point ; some  of  the  less  farcical  illustrations  are  more  amus- 
ing. The  portrait  of  Herman  Swank  is,  to  me,  intensely 
funny,  and  the  account  of  the  customs  of  the  dew-fish  is 
perfectly  written  in  a wistful  vein  of  humor.  Only  one 
who  has  been  connected  with  a literary  hoax  will  be  able  to 
credit  the  statement  that  a man  actually  answered  the  ad- 
vertisement in  the  back  of  “The  Cruise  of  the  Kawa,”  in 
which  Dr.  Traprock  announces  excursions  to  the  South 
Seas.  This  man  wished  to  inquire  about  passage  on  S.S. 
Love-nest,  in  order  to  “see  the  cute  cannibals.” 

Only  those  behind  the  scenes  in  the  production  of  a 
literary  hoax  can  guess  at  the  circumstances  which 
may  have  led  to  its  publication,  or  the  curious  inci- 


THE  LITERARY  HOAX,  II  25 

dents  which  follow.  There  are  odd  revelations  of  the 
human  intellect  and  its  operations,  there  is  an  exposure 
of  that  weakness  to  which  we  are  all  subject:  the  tendency 
to  believe  whatever  we  see  in  print.  However  much  the 
author  of  a hoax  may  divulge  afterwards,  it  is  improbable 
that  he  will  tell  everything.  He  is  sure  to  be  a little 
aghast  to  discover  how  easy  it  is  to  deceive  people — or 
rather,  how  apt  they  are  in  deceiving  themselves.  He 
cannot,  if  he  has  any  heart  or  conscience,  hold  up  all  his 
victims  on  the  point  of  his  pen  for  the  amusement  of  later 
readers;  the  sport  is  too  much  like  pigeon-shooting  at 
Monte  Carlo.  In  the  early  days  of  the  hoax,  he  is  amazed 
to  see  unintended  victims,  walking  blandly  into  the  little 
net  he  has  spread,  quacking  aloud  at  the  same  time,  in 
order  to  advertise  their  entanglement.  In  a moment  or 
two,  they  try  to  back  out,  bleating  piteously — if  I may 
mix  my  metaphors,  in  days  when  it  is  forbidden  to  mix 
anything  stronger.  If  he  goes  to  their  help  at  this  moment 
he  is  in  danger  of  getting  bitten.  But  he  will  notice,  at 
the  mouth  of  the  net,  a number  of  others,  who  had  only 
been  prevented  from  going  in  by  the  fact  that  there  was 
no  room.  They  are  now  pluming  themselves  on  their 
perspicacity.  The  victims  who  have  most  cause  for  com- 
plaint will  probably  take  the  misadventure  in  good  part; 
while  those  who  rushed  in  uninvited  may  be  annoyed. 
Their  opinion  of  the  hoax  is  that  which  the  beetle  holds 
of  the  electric  light,  as  he  sprawls  in  the  dust  below. 
“Drat  the  thing!  What  did  they  put  it  there  for,  any- 
how? I was  only  doing  my  duty  in  trying  to  butt  it  over 
with  my  nose,  but  they  never  should  have  made  it  so 
hard!” 


26 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


A hoax  for  which  I was  chiefly  responsible  left  me  with 
a bewildered  feeling  about  antiquarian  research  and  the 
writing  of  book-reviews.  If  I speak  of  it  now  at  a length 
out  of  all  proportion  to  its  importance,  and  in  conjunction 
with  better  books,  it  is  because  the  experience  showed  me 
how  little  intent  to  deceive  there  may  be  in  the  origin 
of  a hoax,  and  how  readers  often  insist  on  hoodwinking 
themselves.  Mine  was  published  ten  or  twelve  years  ago, 
and  is  totally  forgotten  today.  The  model  for  it  was 
“The  Old  Farmer’s  Almanack”  whose  quaint  and  amus- 
ing style  has  inspired  so  many  imitations,  and  led  Pro- 
fessor George  Lyman  Kittredge  to  write  that  entertaining 
volume,  “The  Old  Farmer  and  his  Almanack.”  I was 
writing,  at  that  time,  a newspaper  column  upon  the 
subject  of  books  and  libraries,  and  it  struck  me  that  an 
old  librarian  might  well  have  an  almanac  of  his  own,  sO 
I composed  a paragraph  in  the  manner  of  an  imaginary 
book  called  “The  Old  Librarian’s  Almanack.”  It  began 
with  the  customary  warning:  “About  this  time  prepare 
for  . . . etc.”  A controversy  happened  to  be  raging  in 
the  pages  of  The  Dial — that  excellent  literary  review,  as 
representative  of  its  day  as  its  successor  is  of  the  ten- 
dencies of  today.  Unfortunately,  no  devotee  of  the 
modern  Dial  can  ever  see  a copy  of  the  paper  as  it  was  in 
that  far-off  year  1908,  since  to  look  back  so  far  would 
be  the  deed  of  a reactionary.  Somehow,  the  quotation 
from  “The  Old  Librarian’s  Almanack”  was  injected  into 
this  Dial  controversy,  and  presently  a correspondent  was 
found  saying  that  he  was  quite  familiar  with  the  passage, 
intimating  further  that  “The  Old  Librarian’s  Almanack” 
was  an  old  favorite  of  his — the  solace  of  his  lonely  hours ! 


THE  LITERARY  HOAX,  II  27 

Here  was  a painful  situation — an  honorable  gentleman 
apparently  professing  familiarity  with  a book  which  had 
no  existence ! There  seemed  but  one  course  open  to  any 
conscientious  writer:  to  see  that  the  book  existed  as  soon 
as  possible,  in  order  to  save  the  face  of  this  admirer  of  it. 
So  also  thought  Mr.  John  Cotton  Dana,  the  librarian  of 
Newark,  and  Mr.  Henry  W.  Kent,  librarian  of  the 
Grolier  Club  and  now  Secretary  of  the  Metropolitan 
Museum  of  Art.  They  suggested  that  the  Almanack 
become  the  first  of  a series  of  little  books  for  librarians. 
With  the  moral  support  of  these  gentlemen — who  were 
sporting  enough  to  risk  their  money  on  the  venture — and 
the  typographical  skill  of  the  Messrs.  Dana  of  the  Elm 
Tree  Press,  the  book  was  written  and  published.  From 
the  work  of  one  Joseph  Perry,  who  had  published  an 
almanac  in  New  Haven  in  1774,  I shamelessly  lifted  all 
astronomical  and  meteorological  details — all  the  hooks 
and  eyes,  curlicues  and  doodads,  moons  and  stars,  signs 
of  the  Bull,  the  Ram,  and  the  Heavenly  Twins.  For  all 
his  literary  productions  I substituted  my  own,  and  it  was 
rather  a precise  job  of  fitting  lines,  words  and  even  letters 
into  small  spaces.  From  the  printers  it  must  have 
required  much  greater  skill. 

The  point  of  the  thing  was  this:  it  was  designed  to 
delude  any  intelligent  reader  for  no  longer  than  five  min- 
utes. It  was  purposely  sown  thick  with  anachronisms; 
its  language  was  made  unduly  archaic;  it  contained 
innumerable  clews  of  modern  origin;  and  it  ended  with 
an  outrageously  farcical  parody  of  an  ancient  cure  for 
rattlesnake  bite  “made  Publick  by  Abel  Puffer  of  Stough- 
ton.” Abel  Puffer,  whose  name  falls  as  sweetly  on  the 


28 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


ear  as  Amos  Cottle’s,  was  a real  personage  who  had  ac- 
tually written  a rattlesnake  recipe. 

An  early  copy  of  the  Almanack  fell  into  the  hands  of 
an  editorial  writer  on  the  New  York  Sun^  wHo  reviewed 
it  for  a column  and  a half,  with  no  apparent  doubt  that 
its  date  was  1774,  as  the  title-page  set  forth.  A letter 
immediately  sent  by  me  to  the  and  printed  within 
the  week,  gave  sufficient  intimation  of  the  modern  author- 
ship of  the  book.  Yet,  one  by  one,  newspapers  and  literary 
reviews  followed  the  Sun  in  gravely  accepting  my  imagi- 
nary “Jared  Bean,”  the  crabbed  Eighteenth  Century 
librarian,  as  the  author.  One  or  two  magazines  or  reviews 
were  saved  at  the  last  minute  from  expressing  similar 
pleasantly  uncritical  opinions.  In  some  circles,  where  it 
became  necessary  to  make  a prompt  decision  about  the 
antiquity  of  the  book,  amusing  arguments  and  debates 
took  place,  some  of  the  participants  suggesting  that  the 
actual  author  was  morally  capable  of  such  an  act  of  turpi- 
tude, but  not  up  to  it  intellectually. 

Two  months  after  I had  myself  set  forth  the  nature 
of  this  transparent  hoax,  which  as  I have  said,  needed  but 
five  minutes’  intelligent  examination  to  be  no  hoax  at  all, 
the  “discoveries”  and  “exposures”  began.  They  con- 
tinued for  more  than  two  years.  I have  a scrap-book  full 
of  data  about  this  hilarious  episode — printed  articles,  let- 
ters, telegrams,  and  other  material,  mostly  good-natured, 
although  occasionally  irascible.  These  jests  are  too 
ancient  to  be  retailed  today,  but  looking  at  this  scrap-book 
again,  after  a lapse  of  more  than  ten  years,  I am  “filled 
with  amaze.”  The  “discoverers”  of  the  modern  origin  of 
the  Almanack  balked  at  the  name  of  the  veritable  Abel 


THE  LITERARY  HOAX,  II  29 

Puffer,  but  swallowed  the  fictitious  Jared  Bean  without 
a struggle.  They  became  owlish  about  typography, 
paper,  and  the  biographies  of  Eighteenth  Century  al- 
manac-makers and  printers.  Light  broke  in  upon  them 
when  they  discovered  obscure  and  recondite  “clews” — of 
their  own  invention — after  they  had  passed  by  a dozen 
obvious  indications  of  modernity.  They  found  jokes  and 
allusions  which  were  quite  unknown  to  the  author,  just 
as  the  commentators  on  every  writer  from  Shakespeare  to 
Lord  Dunsany  have  invented  meanings  of  their  own  for 
various  passages.*  They  found  “really  modern”  expres- 
sions which,  as  a matter  of  fact,  were  not  modern  at  all ; 
they  walked  past  signs  which  were  wide  as  a church-door, 
to  pick  up  microscopic  imaginings  of  their  own.  One 
otherwise  intelligent  critic  had  a piece  of  bad  luck;  he 
chose  the  phrase  “lose  his  guess”  as  a final  clincher.  That 
phrase  was  too  modern  to  have  been  used  a century  ago, 
he  said.  It  ought  to  have  been  so ; I would  have  agreed 
to  that  myself,  if  I had  not  found  “lose  his  guess”  in  a 
genuine  almanac  of  1774.  The  antiquity  or  modernity 
of  phrases,  especially  of  slang,  is  a dangerous  subject 
upon  which  to  be  dogmatic. 

The  late  Hamilton  Mabie,  after  reviewing  the  Alma- 
nack in  The  Outlook,  and  reviewing  it  seriously,  wrote  to 
me  that  he  had  heard  that  all  was  not  as  it  seemed  to  be; 
would  I tell  him  if  The  Outlook  was  “again  in  the  soup”? 
After  I had  told  him  my  simple  tale,  he  replied,  saying 
in  part:  “The  fact  is,  you  caught  me  without  angling.  I 

• In  ihc  face  of  Lord  Dunsany’s  positive  statement  that  there  is  no 
allegory  in  his  plays,  one  of  his  critics  stands  up  and  flatly  tells  him 
to  his  face  that  he  (the  critic)  knows  more  about  it  than  the  dramatist 
himself. 


30 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


simply  swallowed  the  bait  whole.  I hate  not  to  be  a 
game  fish,  but  I would  rather  be  truthful,  so  I am  giving 
you  the  fact.”  He  added  an  invitation  which  started  me 
writing  in  a still  different  field,  and  had,  at  any  rate,  the 
effect  of  giving  me  an  opportunity  for  amusing  work  for 
a number  of  years.  When  superior  persons  sneer  at  Mr. 
Mabie  as  a critic  and  writer,  I am  reminded  of  the  fact 
that  he  had  in  him  the  instincts  of  a good  sportsman  in 
such  matters,  and  lacked  the  pretence  to  omniscience 
which  sours  so  much  critical  writing. 

My  firm  belief  that  there  were,  on  every  page,  enough 
indications  of  the  origin  of  the  Almanack,  received  a set- 
back when  Sir  William  Osier  wrote  to  Mr.  Dana,  three 
or  four  years  later.  He  said : “I  must  say  the  Old  Libra- 
rian’s Almanack  took  me  in  completely.  It  was  not  until 
the  other  day  that  some  friend  suggested  that  some  word 
— I have  forgotten  which — was  not  in  use  at  that  time. 
. . .”  Possibly  Sir  William  Osier’s  acquaintance  with 
early  books  on  medicine  led  him  to  accept  a recipe  which 
began  by  standing  the  patient  upon  his  head ! In  a later 
letter  to  me  from  Oxford,  in  1913,  he  wrote:  “ . . . I 
took  a copy  of  the  Almanack  to  the  Colophon  Club  dinner 
last  month.  . . . To  tell  you  the  truth,  you  fooled  us 
all.  . . .” 

I do  not  know  what  the  customs  of  the  Colophon  Club 
may  be,  but  I think  that  Jared  Bean  came  up  for  examin- 
ation after,  and  not  before,  dinner.  Yet  nothing  could 
have  been  more  ingenious  than  the  format  of  the  book  as 
it  was  nicely  planned  by  the  editors  of  the  series;  while 
its  typography  won  the  praise  of  Theodore  De  Vinne 
himself.  The  wise  folk  who  thought  they  found  blunders 


THE  LITERARY  HOAX,  II  31 

in  the  non-literary  parts  of  the  book  merely  displayed 
their  own  ignorance.  Any  author  should  be  proud  to  have 
his  first  book  set  forth  with  so  much  good  taste  and 
judgment. 


Many  meri  have  invented  a single  imaginary  book,  or 
compiled  the  literary  remains  of  an  author  who  never 
existed.  To  have  invented  a private  library,  a collector 
of  unique  books,  and  actually  to  have  issued  a catalogue 
of  a priceless  collection  of  fictitious  rarities,  is  a perform- 
ance which  only  one  man  has  ever  attempted.  He  desired 
to  play  upon  the  book-collector’s  acquisitiveness,  and  to 
enjoy  the  spectacle  of  famous  bibliomaniacs  trying  to  steal 
a march  upon  one  another.  His  success  was  stupendous, 
and  the  story  of  the  hoax,  even  after  more  than  eighty 
years,  echoes  from  time  to  time  in  literary  journals,  and 
is  familiar  to  some  collectors.  There  are  many,  however, 
who  seem  never  to  have  heard  of  it,  and  to  the  general 
reader  it  is  unknown. 

In  1840  there  came  by  mail  to  book-collectors  in  Bel- 
gium, France,  Holland,  and  England  a sixteen-page  pam- 
phlet from  which  the  title-page  and  other  pages  are  repro- 
duced here.  It  was  printed  in  that  town  of  Mons 
whose  name,  in  August,  1914,  was  heard  around  the 
world.  The  sale,  however,  was  at  Binche.  The  prefatory 
note  was  a triumph  of  art — simple,  touching,  and  above 
all,  convincing.  There  is  a certain  dignified  pathos  in 
the  reference  to  the  owner  of  these  wonderful  volumes — 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


32 

“Jean  Nepomucene-Auguste  Pichauld,  comte  de  Fortsas,” 
who  was  bom  at  his  chateau,  near  Binch^,  in  Belgium, 
in  1770,  and  died  in  the  same  room  “in  which  he  first  saw 
the  light”  in  1839.  A marvellous  collector,  the  Count! 
Devoted  to  his  books,  he  had  let  the  drums  and  tramplings 
of  many  conquests  pass  by,  while  he  assembled  his  library 
of  unique  copies.  He  would  own  no  book  of  which  any 
other  copy  existed.  No  matter  what  price  he  had  paid, 
let  him  find  one  of  his  books  mentioned  by  a bibliographer, 
and  he  would  sell,  give  away,  or  {chose  incroyable!') 
destroy  it ! As  a result,  this  collection,  “very  rich  but  few 
in  number,”  represented  a mere  fragment  of  the  Count’s 
former  library.  The  numbers  in  the  catalogue  ran  up  to 
222,  but  there  were  many  gaps,  and  only  about  fifty-two 
items  actually  appeared. 

The  poor  Count  had  suffered  some  terrible  blows. 
The  publication  of  Brunet’s  “Nouvelles  Recherches” 
was  a heavy  sorrow,  makir^  known,  as  it  did,  that  there 
were  other  copies  of  many  of  his  treasures.  “With- 
out doubt,  it  had  in  no  small  measure  hastened  his  end.” 
He  had  lost  fully  a third  of  his  precious  library  at  that 
time.  The  appearance  of  the  various  numbers  of  Tech- 
ner’s  “Bulletin”  still  further  depleted  the  ranks  of  his 
“sacred  battalion,”  until  there  were,  as  I have  said,  only 
fifty-two  items  left  to  include  in  the  catalogue. 

But  these  items  were  of  a kind  to  give  a bibliomaniac 
a bad  case  of  chronic  insomnia.  Conceived  with  devilish 
ingenuity  so  as  to  include  some  appeal  to  the  whim  of 
every  famous  collector  of  that  day,  the  entries  in  the 
catalogue  were  forerunners  of  the  ingenious  titles  which, 
many  years  after,  Eugene  Field  liked  to  invent — as  in  his 


dune  tr^s-riche  mais  peu  nombreuse  collection 


PROVCNANT  DC  LA  CtBLIOTMfcQUC 

flo  fPU  Ml'  I«  UK  FOkrWAA. 

donl  la  vrnto  s*>  fcra  a liinrlio,  1*;  lo  aonl  IlUO,  a oiu<*  lieiiros  ilu 
inalin,  en  reludfi  rl  par  lo  ininislorp  do  M.’’  Monitor,  Nolaire,  rue 
dc  I'Ksfliso,  n.“  9. 


VTS'VVJljdPJJJJ 

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Prix  • SO  Contitne* 


TBE  LITERARY  HOAX,  II  33 

“Temptation  of  Friar  Gonsol.”  There  were  titles  in 
French,  Latin,  English,  Dutch.  There  were  works  which 
were  supposed  to  have  been  totally  destroyed,  there  were 
books  throwing  light  upon  obscure  and  mysterious  histori- 
cal events,  there  was  an  “infamous”  satire  against  the 
Grand  Monarch,  there  were  “association”  copies  with 
autograph  notes  of  famous  men,  there  was  a scandalous 
autobiography  of  an  eminent  prince,  a ''catalogue  plus 
gue  curieux  des  bonnes  fortunes  du  Prince’’  bound  in 
“green  chagrin,  with  a lock  of  silver  gilt,”  which  a horri- 
fied granddaughter  frantically  tried  to  bid  in.  The  Prin- 
cess de  Ligne,  having  no  desire  that  the  exploits  of  her 
ancestor  should  be  published,  or  that  the  reputations  of 
some  of  the  ladies  of  the  noblest  families  should  suffer, 
wrote  to  M.  Voisin  to  buy  item  48  at  any  cost:  "Achetez, 
je  vous  en  conjure^  a tout  prix^  les  sottises  de  notre  pol- 
lison  de  grandpere.”  It  is  not  clear  from  the  catalogue 
that  the  Prince  de  Ligne.  was  intended  by  number  48; 
there  must  have  been  reasons  why,  the  cap  seemed  to  fit. 
There  were  other  volumes  of  “piquant  revelations”  and 
“gallant  adventures”  which  evidently  caused  uneasiness 
in  various  quarters. 

During  July,  1840,  the  bids  began  to  come  in  to  M. 
Hoyois,  the  printer  and  publisher  of  the  catalogue.  The 
letters  which  accompanied  the  bids  are  amusing;  most  of 
the  writers  swallowed  the  bait  and  ran  away  with  it. 
There  were  a few  sceptics.  And  there  were  a few  cautious 
inquirers;  they  were  partly  credulous  but  would  not  say 
so;  partly  suspicious,  but  disliked  to  admit  it.  They 
would  not  commit  themselves  to  anything;  they  hoped 
to  remain  neutral  in  thought  and  word.  They  did  not 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


34 

know  what  was  going  to  happen,  but  intended  to  be  able 
to  say  “I  told  you  so!”  under  any  and  all  circumstances. 
These  odd  fish  are  always  left  high  and  dry,  gasping 
on  the  bank,  whenever  a literary  hoax  is  perpetrated. 
Some  of  them  asked  questions  here  and  there,  and  received 
assurance  that  the  Count’s  books  were  genuine,  from 
experts  who  really  knew  as  little  as  they.  Some  persons 
said  that  the  books  were  not  all  unique;  one  gentleman 
asserted  that  he  owned  copies  of  several  of  them! 

Mr.  Arnold  Lethwidge,  writing  about  twenty  years  ago 
in  the  Literary  Collector^  gives  a humorous  account  of  the 
scenes  in  Binche  on  August  lo,  1840,  the  day  of  the  sale. 
Groups  of  strangers  gathered  in  the  streets,  each  carrying 
a copy  of  the  little  pamphlet.  There  were  visitors  from 
Brussels  and  Paris,  from  Amsterdam  and  London.  They 
all  wished  to  see  “M.  Mourlon,  Notaire,  rue  de  I’figlise, 
No.  9.”  They  snooped  about,  trying  to  avoid  each  other. 
When  one  book-collector  met  an  acquaintance  he  mut- 
tered something  to  the  effect  that  he  was  merely  passing 
through,  on  his  way  to  Brussels.  They  gathered  at  the 
inn,  and  bewildered  the  irm-keeper  and  natives  by  their 
persistent  inquiries  about  M.  Mourlon. 

The  stage  from  Paris  arrived,  bringing  a dozen  more 
visitors.  The  great  French  bibliographer.  Brunet,  was 
there,  so  was  Nodier,  and  the  Baron  de  Reiffenberg, 
director  of  the  Royal  Library  of  Belgium.  He  had  asked 
for  a special  appropriation  to  enable  him  to  buy  some 
of  the  treasures,  omitting  from  his  list,  however,  certain 
items,  as  “too  free  for  a public  library.”  Eager  buyers 
had  come  from  England;  the  Roxburghe  Club  had  sent 
a representative. 


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THE  LITERARY  HOAX,  II  35 

These  strangers  and  their  curious  behavior  began  to 
make  the  people  of  Binche  uneasy.  The  police  were 
worried;  it  was  a time  of  unrest  in  Europe,  and  the 
authorities  were  always  suspecting  outbreaks  and  revolu- 
tions. Were  these  odd-looking  men,  with  their  stooped 
shoulders,  and  their  little  pam.phlets,  dangerous  char- 
acters in  disguise?  Might  they  not  be  planning  an 
emeute?  No  little  town  ever  thinks  of  itself  as  anything 
but  the  centre  of  the  world — was  the  peace  of  Europe 
about  to  be  shattered  again,  and  had  Binche  been  selected 
as  the  place  to  touch  off  the  explosion?  They  all  talked, 
did  the  strangers,  of  M.  Mourlon,  the  notary,  of  the  Rue 
de  rfiglise,  and  the  Comte  de  Fortsas.  There  was  no 
Rue  de  I’figlise,  and  no  notary  named  Mourlon;  the  citi- 
zens knew  nothing  of  a Comte  de  Fortsas.  The  day  wore 
on,  and  still  the  bibliomaniacs  raged  in  the  streets. 

A quiet  gentleman  who  had  come  in  on  one  of  the 
earlier  stages  followed  the  book-collectors  about,  and 
listened  to  their  talk  in  the  inn.  When  the  evening  stage 
arrived  from  Brussels,  he  wandered  over  and  took  from 
it  one  of  the  newspapers  which  it  brought.  Then  he 
sprang  a surprise.  He  read  aloud  an  announcement. 
The  town  of  Binche,  moved  by  local  pride,  had  bought 
the  entire  collection  of  the  Comte  de  Fortsas,  to  be  pre- 
served entire,  and  to  be  kept  there.  So  there  would  be 
no  sale.  At  this,  the  excitement  broke  out;  arguments, 
expostulations,  complaints,  and  still  further  enquiries 
addressed  to  the  town  officers.  Why  had  they  not  been 
notified?  Why  had  they  been  allowed  to  come  so  far 
for  nothing?  It  was  infamous!  But,  Messieurs,  per- 
sisted all  the  folk  of  Binche,  we  have  bought  no  rare 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


36 

books,  we  do  not  own  any  books ; there  is  no  M.  Mourlon, 
there  is  no  Comte  de  Fortsas;  we  have  never  heard  of 
such  persons. 

“It  is  all  a hoax,  then!”  suggested  somebody.  And 
someone  else  wondered  if  the  quiet  man  who  had  read 
the  notice  in  the  Brussels  paper  could  tell  them  anything 
more  about  it.  They  looked  for  him,  but  he  had  dis- 
appeared. They  never  found  him  again.  He  was  M. 
Renier  Chalon,  an  antiquarian  and  a writer  of  books  on 
numismatics.  He  had  invented  the  Comte  de  Fortsas  and 
his  library,  had  written  the  catalogue  out  of  his  own 
imagination,  knowledge  of  books,  and  of  the  weaknesses 
of  his  fellow  collectors,  and  had  taken  his  pay  in  riding 
to  Binche  with  the  bibliomaniacs,  watching  their  man- 
euvers to  outwit  each  other,  listening  to  their  discussion 
of  these  imaginary  works,  and  hearing  one  or  two  of  them 
claim  that  they  also  owned  copies  of  some  of  the  best 
items  in  the  Count’s  library! 

“It  was,”  says  Mr.  Lethwidge,  “an  admirable  jest, 
perfectly  carried  out,  causing  discomfiture  to  many,  dis- 
tress to  none.”  After  the  famous  tenth  of  August  had 
gone  by  a cloud  seems  to  settle  upon  the  whole  affair. 
Collectors  who  were  present  did  not  widely  advertise  the 
fact.  The  wise  ones  who  had  claimed  to  own  some  of  the 
Count’s  books,  suddenly  became  silent  about  them.  The 
cautious  probably  boasted  that  they  had  been  suspicious 
all  the  time.  They  are  alike  in  all  ages!  Some  literary 
journals  referred  to  the  “mystification.”  The  whole  truth 
seems  not  to  have  come  out  for  nearly  sixteen  years,  when 
M.  Hoyois,  the  printer  of  the  catalogue,  published  an 
extensive  account  of  the  matter,  giving  the  letters  which 


THE  LITERARY  HOAX,  II  37 

he  had  received.  This  act  cost  him  the  friendship  of 
M.  Chalon. 

A copy  of  the  catalogue  of  Count  de  Fortsas’  library 
was  bought  at  the  Poor  sale  in  New  York  for  $40.  It 
was  Baron  de  Reiffenberg’s  copy  with  his  annotations. 
There  are  reprints  of  the  catalogue  which  turn  up  for  sale 
now  and  then.  They  are  pleasant  reminders  of  the  most 
successful  and  ingenious  literary  hoax  of  all  time.  Others 
have  deceived  or  amazed  a certain  number  of  persons, 
and  have  had  amusing  results.  This  alone  was  dynamic. 
One  still  delights  to  picture  the  dusty  streets  of  the 
Belgian  town  on  that  far-off  day  in  August;  the  bewil- 
dered townsfolk;  the  book-collectors  from  the  cities  in 
their  long-skirted  coats  and  top  hats,  all  of  them  eager  but 
sly,  furtive,  puzzled,  but  above  all  greedy  to  lay  their 
hands  upon  the  treasures  collected  by  M.  le  Comte  de 
Fortsas. 


I, 


; 


BOOK-SHOPS 


CHAPTER  III 


BOOK-SHOPS 


The  proper  sort  of  book-shop,”  began  B., 

“Is  a second-hand  book-shop,”  interrupted  F. 
“Oh,  I’m  tired  of  all  you  sentimentalists  talking  about 
old  book-shops!  If  you  really  want  to  get  a book,  and 
to  get  it  today,  you  go  to  the  biggest  book-store  in  town. 
And  that’s  usually  a shop  devoted  to  new  books.  If  you 
are  looking  for  something  to  write  about,  like  all  these 
fellows  who  are  bent  on  being  so  whimsical  and  charm- 
ing, of  course  a second-hand  book-shop  is  your  place.” 

“I  am  thinking,”  F.  returned,  “about  buying  books  as 
an  art  rather  than  as  a science;  about  pleasure  versus 
business.  The  hunt  is  what  makes  the  fun,  as  in  every- 
thing. If  eating  two  or  three  skinny  trout  were  all  a man 
got  out  of  going  fishing,  who  would  take  the  trouble? 
It’s  like  getting  married : which  do  you  sympathize  with 
— the  man  who  takes  care  that  his  income  is  all  right, 
and  then  coolly  looks  about  for  a suitable  person,  and 
maybe  advertises  for  her;  or  with  the  poor,  sentimental 
fish  who  meets  someone  quite  unexpectedly,  finds  that 
life  is  intolerable  without  her,  and  so  rushes  ahead  into 
marriage?  You  may  call  it  sentimentalizing,  but  there 
is  some  sport  if  you  wander  into  a book-shop,  merely  to 
moon  about,  and  perhaps  stumble  upon  something  good. 
If  you  dash  in  to  get  a particular  book,  and  instantly  have 
it  wrapped  up,  you  may  as  well  be  buying  a turnip.” 

41 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


42 

He  paused ; but  the  rest  of  us  did  not  feel  controversial, 
so  he  filled  his  coffee-cup  again  and  continued. 

“If  you  expose  yourself  to  the  contagion  of  books,  the 
results  may  be  interesting.  That  was  a satisfactory  book- 
shop in  ‘Over  Bemerton’s.’  ” 

“What  was  it  like?” 

“I  forget.  But  somebody  lived  above  it — which  must 
have  been  handy.  And  he  bought  of  Mr.  Bemerton  a 
copy  of  Giles’s  ‘Chinese  Biographical  Dictionary.’  That 
alone  would  make  any  book-shop  memorable.” 

“The  right  kind  of  a book-shop,”  began  R.,  this  time. 

“Your  idea,”  interrupted  B.,  “is  one  full  of  first  edi- 
tions of  Lafcadio  Hearn,  Anatole  France,  and  George 
Moore,  lying  in  a tray  marked:  ‘Take  Your  Pick,  35 
cents.’  The  book-seller  would  be  old,  partly  blind,  and 
hopelessly  crippled.” 

“That  is,  in  the  main,  correct,”  R.  agreed;  “except 
that  they  would  be  marked  5 cents  instead  of  35.” 

“But  where  is  the  joy  of  pursuit,  of  hunting  down  the 
prize — where  is  even  the  mercenary  joy  of  bargaining 
with  the  dealer.” 

“Nowhere,”  returned  R.  “I  would  forego  these  things. 
I would  be  out  for  plunder.  For  the  pleasure  of  possessing 
these  treasures;  showing  the  books  to  my  friends,  and 
hearing  them  (to  quote  Eugene  Field)  wail  to  know  I 
got  them  cheap.” 

The  proper  sort  of  book-shop  is  on  a side  street.  It  has 
to  be;  rents  elsewhere  are  too  high  for  the  modest  book- 
seller. The  great  whales  of  his  profession,  those  who  min- 
ister to  the  criminally  rich,  may  exist  on  the  main  streets. 
The  streets  which  you  remember  with  affection,  the 


BOOK-SHOPS 


43 

streets  which  attract  when  first  you  discover  them  and 
linger  pleasantly  in  your  mind,  are  always  side  streets. 
The  Kalverstraat,  in  Amsterdam,  is  the  great  type — and 
you  can  shake  hands  across  it,  from  sidewalk  to  sidewalk. 
Are  there  any  book-shops  on  it*?  I forgot  to  look.  Some- 
body tells  me  that  there  is  a narrow  street  near  the  Mitre 
in  Oxford,  and  that  it  is  equipped  with  a book-shop. 

The  proper  sort  of  book-shop  is  in  an  old  building;  it 
is  old  and  dingy  itself.  Dingy,  but  not  dirty  nor  dusty. 
It  is  not  necessary  to  have  your  shop  in  such  a condition 
that  your  customer,  after  four  minutes’  poking  about,  has 
to  go  to  a Turkish  bath.  There  is  a shop  in  New  York, 
of  which  the  proprietor  has  a patriarchal  Old  Testament 
name,  where  they  are  devotees  of  the  dirt  theory.  They 
must  bring  it  in  on  shovels,  and  sprinkle  it  over  the 
books.  And  their  prices  are  no  lower  than  elsewhere.  I 
came  out  from  under  a heap  of  books  one  day,  looking 
like  a sweep,  only  to  learn  that  the  principal  pirate  was 
going  to  charge  me — but  this  is  not  a recital  of  atrocities. 

The  shop  ought  to  be  high  and  rambling,  though  it 
need  not  be  large.  There  are  not  so  many  interesting 
books  in  the  world.  Big  book-shops  are  full  of  plugs. 
But  it  should  be  packed  with  books,  up  to  the  high  ceiling, 
and  there  should  be  dim  corners  in  it,  and  unexpected 
turnings  and  out-of-the-way  shelves,  so  that  there  may 
be  surprises,  and  arcana,  and  mysteries.  You  must  not 
be  able  to  comb  the  place  at  your  first  visit.  You  should 
leave  with  the  intention  of  coming  back,  and  having 
another  squint  at  the  top  shelves,  or  at  some  recess  which 
the  light  did  not  reach  on  the  rainy  day  when  you  first 
came. 


44 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


There  should  be  one  or  two  (one  is  best)  unobtrusive 
clerks, — or  better,  the  dealer  himself,  as  he  has  the  right 
to  reduce  prices — and  a few  (a  very  few)  well-behaved 
customers,  who  keep  out  of  your  way.  Smoking  should 
be  permitted.  It  is,  in  most  shops.  There  is,  also  in  New 
York,  a shop  on  Vesey  Street,  with  a large  sign  forbid- 
ding smoking!  I would  say  that  this  is  a bad  shop — 
except  for  the  fact  that  I got  a clean  copy  of  Anstey’s 
“Salted  Almonds”  there  for  fifty  cents.  By  virtue  of 
being  on  a top  shelf  it  had  escaped  notice  amid  a mass 
of  commonplace  novels. 

A dim  recollection  comes  to  me  of  a shop  in  London, 
near  St.  Paul’s,  which  had  room  for  exactly  one  customer 
at  a time.  It  was  a little  gem  of  a shop,  not  much  larger 
than  a sentry-box,  but  with  its  w'alls  lined  with  books 
to  eight  feet  above  the  floor.  I was  a little  embarrassed, 
however,  by  the  presence  of  the  First  Lord  of  the  Treas- 
ury, or  at  least  the  Secretary  of  State  for  Foreign  Affairs. 
Such,  from  his  dress,  his  dignified  countenance,  and  his 
deportment,  I imagined  the  frock-coated  gentleman  to 
be.  He  remained  seated,  and  in  the  half-light  I stumbled 
over  his  feet.  After  courteously  acknowledging  my  apol- 
ogies, he  inquired  if  he  could  serve  me.  He  was  the 
proprietor ! 

The  embarrassment  was  all  on  my  side  when,  a few 
moments  later,  I placed  eighteen-pence  in  his  palm  in 
return  for  a small  book.  He  bowed  with  complete  gravity, 
but  I felt  like  the  man  who  absent-mindedly  tipped  the 
Papal  Nuncio. 

For  its  physical  characteristics,  there  is  in  New  York 
no  shop  which  lives  up  to  my  specifications  better  than 


BOOK-SHOPS 


■45 

one  on — but  I had  best  not  give  advertisements.  I will 
say,  for  the  literary  detective,  that  the  name  of  the  street 
is  that  of  one  of  England’s  queens,  that  the  street  number 
is  the  title  of  a novel  by  Booth  Tarkington,  and  the  pro- 
prietor’s name  is  rich  in  romantic  suggestion  of  old  Span- 
ish Jewry.  I cannot  imagine  a better  name  for  a book- 
seller— for  I am  under  no  delusions  about  business  deal- 
ings with  the  descendants  of  Abraham  and  Isaac.  I will 
entrust  myself  to  their  mercy  as  quick  as  to  Yankee  or 
Briton,  and  be  fleeced  as  often  by  one  as  by  the  other. 
And  not  often  by  any  of  them.  Except  a few  extortion- 
ers— and  these,  I think,  among  the  great  Napoleons  of 
the  tribe,  who  despoil  the  plutocrat,  or  sell  limited  edi- 
tions to  the  parvenue,  book-sellers  are  as  honest  as 
any  other  men.  It  may  be  rash,  but  I’ll  risk  the  asser- 
tion. 

This  shop,  in  appearance,  is  all  that  may  be  desired. 
And  the  best  restaurant  in  the  lower  part  of  the  city 
is  on  the  same  narrow  street.  You  may  go  in  there  and 
sit  and  eat  until  gorged  to  repletion,  then  come  forth, 
cross  the  street,  and  fumble  about  the  dark  and  attractive 
shelves  of  the  shop  whose  name  and  address  are  alike 
romantic.  When  I found  in  it  a good,  early  edition  of 
“Sylvie  and  Bruno,”  which  became  my  property  for 
seventy-five  cents,  I thought  I had  discovered  the  place 
of  my  dreams.  But  nothing  so  agreeable  to  my  whims 
has  appeared  there  since. 

Another  shop,  whose  lure  is  wholly  on  the  outside,  is 
in  a neighborhood  once  associated  with  Mr.  John  Mase- 
field, and  still  the  murmurous  haunt  of  poets,  playwrights 
and  novelists.  On  warm  summer  evenings  the  clicking 


46  BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 

of  their  typewriters  rises  in  chorus  to  the  stars.  It  is 
said  that  the  poet  tried  this  shop  and  liked  it  not.  Its 
signs  always  make  me  stop.  Here  is  one  of  them : 

BOOKS  ON  ALL  SUBJECTS 

Rare  and  Curious  Books 
Wit  Humor  Proverbs 
Funny  Limerick  Jokes 
All  the  poets  from 
"Homer”  & “Virgil”  to  “Kipling” 

Apocryphal  old  & 

New  Testaments 
Prayer  Books  Bibles 
Renan’s  Life  of  Jesus 
Face  on  the  Bar  Room  Floor 
Oriental  Religion  & 

Scotch  Clans  and  Tartans 
How  to  become  a Citizen 
Oscar  Wilde  G B Shaw 
Gilbert’s  Bab  Ballads 

Theosophy  Spiritualism 
Psychology  Mythology 
New  Thought  Plato 

Vest  Pocket  Editions 
Ruskin  Sea  Yarns 
Irish  Scotch  and  other  Toasts 
Fortune  Telling  Cards 
Rhyming  Dictionaries 
Roger’s  Thesaurus 
"Albertus  Magnus”  Magic 
Birthday  Horoscopes 
Gold  Fountain  pens  l.oo 
Irish  Scotch  and  old  Songs 
Brann’s  “Iconoclast” 

Schopenhauer’s  Essays 

Freemasonry  Oddfellowship 

Dream  Books  Sexology 

Tell  your  Friends 


BOOK-SHOPS 


47 


A second  sign  informs  you  that  the  shop  has  a 
million  books  on  all  subjects”  and  the  shop  is  iio  feet 
deep.  Still  another  announces 

IRISH  BOOKS  OF  ALL  KINDS 

Kickham’s  “Knocknagow” 

The  Koran  1.50  The  Talmud  1.50 
Fortune  Telling  Cards  & Books 
Pepys’  & Evelyn’s  Diaries 
The  Chef’s  Reminder 
How  to  save  Your  Child’s  Life  l.oo 
6th  & 7th  Book  of  Moses 
Chesterfield’s  Letters  Typewriting 
Moody’s  and  other  Sermons 
Josephus  Confucius 
Astrology  Palmistry 
Care  of  Dogs  Birds  and  Pets 
Tom  Paine  Ingersoll 

Sinking  of  the  Titanic 
After  Dinner  Stories  Law 
How  to  be  Beautiful 
How  to  be  a Detective 
Wild  Flowers  Trees  Birds 
Old  Magazines  Bridge 
Dress  Making  Millinery 

But  when  you  enter  the  illusion  is  broken.  If  you 
know  exactly  what  you  want,  all  is  well.  But  whoever 
does  know  exactly  what  he  wants  in  a second-hand  book 
store?  They  are  not  made  for  such  definite  people.  And 
if  you  wish  to  look  about,  you  raise  suspicion  in  the 
breasts  of  the  proprietors.  It  must  have  happened,  one 
day,  that  somebody  in  the  deepest  recesses  of  that  no 
foot  shop,  tried  to  fill  his  pockets  with  some  of  the  half 
million  books,  and  creep  nefariously  forth.  At  any  rate, 
customers  are  under  a thick  cloud  of  distrust. 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


48 

There  once  was  a place  on  Fourth  Avenue,  where  you 
could  descend  into  an  evil  hole,  warmed  by  the  flames 
of  the  pit, — all  atmosphere  was  unknown  save  the 
asphyxiating  fumes  of  an  oil  stove.  Here  gathered  certain 
crapulous  old  men  to  claw  over  the  European  novels. 

Very  different  is  Mr. ’s  shop  near  Fifth  Avenue. 

It  is  swept  and  garnished:  it  contains  many  fine  books, 

and  Mr. with  the  graciousness  of  an  Ambassador, 

will  sell  you  a good  honest  copy  of  a book,  for,  say,  five 
dollars.  True  it  is  that  some  other  dealer,  a few  blocks 
away,  will  sell  you  one  exactly  as  good  for  two  dollars 
and  a half.  But  atmosphere  is  certainly  something,  and 
so  is  tradition,  and  the  feeling  that  no  vulgar  purchase, 
but  a diplomatic  causerie,  is  forward. 

Experimenting  with  them  all,  and  not  ignoring  the 
attractions  of  the  one  with  the  romantic  address,  I am 
left  with  a strong  prejudice  in  favor  of  a small  shop  I 
came  upon  by  accident.  Following  my  custom,  I will 
disguise  the  avenue  on  which  it  stands  by  saying  that  it 
has  the  name  of  a town  where  minute-men  once  gathered 
on  the  green,  one  April  morning,  to  begin  a great  war. 
And  although  the  proprietor  has  called  his  shop  after 
some  bird — robin  or  wren — his  own  name  will  remain 
darkly  hidden  if  I say  that  one  of  this  patronymic  wrote 
the  “Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a Mad  Dog.”  A little  dog 
is  one  of  the  inmates  of  the  shop,  which  is  remarkable  for 
a small  but  choice  collection  of  books.  The  proprietor  is 
one  of  those  unusual  beings  who  reads,  and  yet  has  not  an 
exaggerated  idea  of  the  value  of  books.  Many  of  the 
dealers  seem  to  be  bitten  with  the  “first  edition”  craze — 
they  talk  about  first  editions  of  this  writer  and  that,  till 


BOOK-SHOPS 


49 

one  may  expect  to  hear  of  first  editions  of  Harold  Bell 
Wright. 

Buying  second-hand  books  is  as  interesting  a game  as 
poker;  not  as  exciting,  but  never  so  expensive.  It  has 
the  fascinations  of  discovery  and  exploration.  You  are 
always  about  to  happen  on  something  that  you  greatly 
desired.  Beyond  the  horizon  is  the  prize — and  it  is  a 
horizon  that  fades  forever  and  forever  as  you  move.  The 
pot  of  gold  is  at  the  rainbow’s  end,  and  you  never  catch 
up  with  it.  But  you  keep  finding  pieces  of  gold  which 
have  fallen  out.  You  do  not  go  after  any  book  in  par- 
ticular— if  you  play  the  right  game — but  you  have  vague 
recollections  of  forgotten  books  which  you  would  gladly 
see  again.  Or  you  discover  fascinating  things  which  are 
totally  new  to  you.  The  rivalries  and  enmities  of  the 
dealers  are  quaint,  and  the  eccentricities  of  collectors  as 
merry  as  the  cantrips  of  unicorns  on  a grassy  plain. 


WIZARDS  AND  ENCHANTERS 


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CHAPTER  IV 

WIZARDS  AND  ENCHANTERS 


In  “African  Game  Trails”  Mr.  Roosevelt  said  that  he 
was  “in  a bond  of  close  intellectual  sympathy”  with 
the  Doctor  of  the  expedition,  “ever  since  a chance  allusion 
to  ‘William  Henry’s  Letters  to  His  Grandmother’  had 
disclosed  the  fact  that  each  of  us,  ever  since  the  days 
of  his  youth  had  preserved  the  bound  volumes  of  Our 
Young  Folks,  and  moreover  firmly  believed  that  there 
never  had  been  its  equal  as  a magazine,  whether  for 
old  or  young,  even  though  the  Plancus  of  our  golden  con- 
sulship was  the  not  wholly  happy  Andrew  Johnson.” 

It  is  true,  as  Mr.  Roosevelt  implies,  that  no  agreement 
about  books,  not  even  in  the  vexed  question  of  sea-stories, 
can  make  us  look  upon  another  man  with  so  friendly  an 
eye  as  the  discovery  that  he  belonged  to  our  period,  and 
shared  our  especial  enthusiasms  about  reading,  in  the 
years  that  stretched  between  the  sixth  birthday  and  the 
sixteenth.  There  may  be  endless  debate  as  to  the  best 
period,  the  best  authors,  and  the  best  magazine.  There 
was  the  age  of  Mayne  Reid  and  Oliver  Optic,  of  Castle- 
mon  and  Trowbridge,  of  Henty  and  the  others  who  fol- 
lowed. The  two  African  hunters,  who  happened  to  be 
young  when  Andrew  Johnson  was  President,  may  insist 
on  the  superiority  of  Our  Young  Folks',  men  of  later 
decades  will  be  equally  firm  for  St.  Nicholas,  for  The 
Argosy,  for  Golden  Days,  for  HarpeFs  Young  People 

53 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


54 

or  for  The  Youth’s  Cotn panion.  The  decades  overlap; 
the  really  excellent  authors  do  not  go  out  of  favor  with 
the  first  generation;  we  read  some  of  the  books,  at  least, 
and  sometimes  the  very  copies,  which  our  fathers  enjoyed. 
And  bound  volumes  of  magazines  descend  to  us,  to  our 
delight,  from  older  brothers  and  sisters.  But  the  magic 
time  of  children’s  books  is  our  own  youth,  and  fortunately 
for  children,  it  begins  anew, — the  golden  years  return. 

It  must  be  enjoyed  while  it  lasts,  for  it  slips  away 
from  each  generation  in  order  to  visit  the  next.  But  for 
those  who  have  left  the  wonderful  years  behind,  it  re- 
turns no  more.  We  shall  never  get  that  thrill  again.  I 
do  not,  customarily,  nowadays,  run  half  a mile  down  the 
street  to  meet  the  postman  and  relieve  him  of  a mag- 
azine for  which  I have  been  feverishly  waiting  for  a 
whole  month;  nor  walk  two  miles  to  get  the  seventh 
chance  at  a book  for  which  six  others  are  also  impatient. 
But  I can  recall  a time  when  such  proceedings  seemed 
altogether  natural  and  proper.  I am  afraid  I shall  never 
again  find  the  books  that  will  convulse  me  with  laughter, 
or  turn  my  spine  into  one  long  icicle,  as  once  they  could 
do.  And  there  are  folk  who  pride  themselves  on  exactly 
this  insensitiveness,  this  sophistication ! 

Although  I know  that  the  golden  age  of  children’s 
books  is  repeated  over  and  over  again;  and  that  the 
wonder  bursts  upon  each  generation,  without  regard  to 
any  group  of  writers,  or  any  single  children’s  magazine, 
I find  myself  pitying  the  boys  of  today.  Poor  little  devils 
— they  haven’t  the  books  I had.  Those  whose  “golden 
consulship”  is  that  of  Wilson  or  Harding  are  out  of  luck, 
compared  with  us  of  the  days  of  Cleveland  and  Harri- 


-Mil 


t AI  k N W I S 1 1 F S,  N « ) W A D A >*  S . 


l6^ 


old  shoes  to  such  |»rrfcction  th.it,  after  .ill, 
the  pptch«  were  seared)  seen,  and  once  on,, 
and  neatly  laced,  they  looked  si*  well  ih.tt, 
with  a lighter  heart.  Tinkey  s|ir.ing  to  his 
feet  to  complete  his  dressing.  Fhe  mirror 
hy  the  aid  of  which  he  arranged  his  colLir 
and  neck-tic  did  not  reflect  his  pants,  and  the 
pretty  *lk  tie  was  vcr>-  liccoining.  Actually, 


•••i  wi»H  mit’"  I*r»  xkkt  rAia.] 


*1  TNB  SMO««  TWKC  AS  MU”* 


creased  sue.  Twice  as  big!  To  the  round  e>cs 
,:szing  at  them  they  looked  as  big  .ts  the  bam,  and 
if  any  little  reader  doubts  n,  let  him  measure 
tmee  the  length  and  breadth  of  his  boot,  and  pul 
hu  foot  upon  the  nu-.i'>ure. 

Te.irs  could  no  l-rnger  be  kept  b.ick.  Finkcy 
kicked  the  shoe  into  the  corner  of  the  room  with  a 
passionate  sob. 

••  I wont  go!”  he  cried.  “I  wont  wc.ir  m)  old 
Uuusers  .and  shoes  with  a gn*ai  p.iteh  on  them  ! 

••  .\re  y«»u  never  coming? “shouted  Ikda 
from  down-st.iir*. 

“I  'll  walk  oicr ! Don't  wail  for 
me  ! ” Tinkey  answere*d,  .and  could 
hear  them  alt  laugh  .is  Fannie  said: 

■•'Finkey  s prinking  ! W ont  he 
be  line  ! ” 

Should  he  go?  Mrs.  Davidson's 
.inniial  party  w.\>  not  to  Ik-  lightly 
« t .aside,  and  w.is  one  of  the  great 
|4e*.isures  in  Tinkey's  i|uici  c«untr>- 
life.  Ferh.ips  .iniong  so  man)  his 
dress  would  not  l>e  mMiced.  and  he 
had  not  seen  some  of  the  bo>  s since 


IHr  |H.»  t «|VH 

THAI  »(.K>  IN  ;ESKHi«*” 


»1  hmke  up.  \'er>  listh'sMv  he  to«ik 
blacking-hrush.  and  |Milishcd  hi> 


Copyright  by  The  Century  Co. 


By  A.  B.  Frost  in  St.  Nicholas 


WIZARDS  AND  ENCHANTERS 


55 

son.  And  when  I try  to  explain  why  this  is  so  I find 
myself  thinking  constantly  of  one  author  and  the  title 
of  one  magazine:  Frank  Stockton  and  Sl  Nicholas.  The 
writings  of  Frank  Stockton  are,  of  course,  available  for 
children  today,  and  read  by  them.  But  his  name  repre- 
sents, to  me  at  least,  a group  of  authors  and  artists  who 
charmed  the  readers  both  young  and  old  of  1880  to  1887, 
odd,  humorous,  gentle,  creators  as  they  were,  of  all  kinds 
of  fancies  and  conceits.  They  were  masters  of  a clear 
narrative  style,  writers  of  good  English.  They  did  not 
have  to  depend  upon  the  last  up-to-the-minute  topic,  nor 
turn  out  to  order,  yarns  about  “Aeroplane  Boys”  and 
“Radio  Boys.”  And  when  a notable  success  is  made  to- 
day in  writing  books  for  children — as  in  Mr.  Bowen’s 
“The  Old  Tobacco  Shop”  or  Mr.  Lofting’s  “Story  of  Dr. 
Dolittle” — I notice  that  it  is  to  Frank  Stockton  or  to 
Charles  E.  Carryl,  the  other  great  name  of  that  period, 
to  whom  we  go  for  comparison  by  way  of  praise. 

We  are  breeding,  among  American  authors  today,  any 
number  of  clever  satirists,  some  of  whose  writings  are  a 
most  wholesome  medicine;  we  are  also  training  a crew 
of  little  Russians,  tiresome  ninnies,  to  whom  the  sour 
stomach  is  prerequisite  for  great  literature.  There  must 
be  thousands  of  readers  who  do  not  wish  the  syrups  of 
an  absurd  optimism,  but  who  equally  have  no  desire  for 
the  wormwood  of  an  affected  pessimism.  They  do  not, 
in  short,  wish  to  be  medicined  at  all  when  they  open  a 
book,  but  to  be  amused.  At  present,  they  are  confronted 
by  a chorus  of  terribly  serious,  humorless  men,  who  are 
pounding  on  the  table,  and  growling  portentously:  “You 
wish  to  be  amused,  do  you?  By  Godfrey!  you  shall  not 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


56 

be  amused;  we’re  going  to  set  your  teeth  on  edge!”  And 
such  readers,  remembering  Frank  Stockton’s  stories  and 
novels  for  adults,  naturally  wish  for  another  like  him. 

St.  Nicholas  goes  on  its  way,  as  it  used  to  do,  amusing 
and  pleasing  children,  and  coming  out  each  year  in  bound 
volumes  with  the  morning-glories  on  the  cover.  For  me, 
however,  the  great  years  are  those  of  the  i88o’s.  Not 
long  ago  I acquired,  from  a noble  book-seller,  fifteen  or 
twenty  of  the  volumes,  and  on  the  day  after  their  arrival 
— a Sunday — the  strange  spectacle  could  be  observed  of 
three  or  four  doddering  old  men  of  forty  or  thereabouts, 
sitting  on  the  floor  at  my  home,  lost  to  all  sense  of  pro- 
priety, and  totally  neglectful  of'such  sane  and  decent 
topics  of  conversation  as  politics,  business,  or  prohibition. 
For  two  hours  or  more  nothing  could  be  heard  but: 
“Here’s  the  poem  about  the  De  Gustibus: 

On  the  edge  of  the  wood 
A De  Gustibus  stood 
With  a gentle  expansible  smile ” 

Or  “Here’s  the  picture  of  the  Aristocrats  winding  up 
the  city, — by  George!  I haven’t  seen  that  for  thirty 
years!”  Or  “Here’s  ‘Phaeton  Rogers’ — I read  that 
twelve  times.” 

This  was  the  period  when  Frank  Stockton’s  best  tales 
were  appearing:  “The  Floating  Prince”  and  “How  the 
Aristocrats  Sailed  Away”  and  “The  Castle  of  Bim,”  with 
its  engaging  character,  the  Ninkum,  who  liked  to  lie  on 
his  back,  gaze  up  at  the  sky  and  expand  his  mind.  These 
stories  were  illustrated,  some  by  E.  B.  Bensell  and  some 
by  Reginald  Birch,  and  no  one  who  read  them  has  ever 


k 


C 1)0 


t'. 

^«ceo 


L 


Eacl»  1 luTitci*.  witli  Ills  slron^l^  corded  bow. 
Sero,  s lo  Sii^,  1 ll  lul  Uicil  I’^.'ibbil . don't  "you  Know*.' 
it  s possible 

ihcy  will. 

If  tlie  creature  '.s 

oiily  slill 


Hut  lA  I^al)!>i 
ao  ltcx!*)lc  lu 


Copyright  by  The  Century  Co. 

From  St.  Nicholas 


WIZARDS  AND  ENCHANTERS 


57 

forgotten  the  pictures, — they  are  as  familiar,  as  well- 
beloved,  and  as  essential  to  the  story  as  Sir  John  Ten- 
niel’s  illustrations  for  the  “Alice”  books.  The  story  of 
“The  Griffin  and  the  Minor  Canon,”  perhaps  the  nearest 
to  perfection  of  them  all,  so  impressed  me  with  the  dietary 
habits  of  Griffins — “I  never  eat  between  the  equinoxes. 
At  the  vernal  and  at  the  autumnal  equinox  I take  a good 
meal,  and  that  lasts  me  half  a year” — that  never  to  this 
day  do  March  2i  or  September  2i  come  around,  that  I 
do  not  remember  to  beware  of  Griffins.  Mr.  Bensell 
was  the  illustrator  of  Carryl’s  “Davy  and  the  Goblin,” 
and  drew  the  immortal  picture  of  the  Cockalorum. 

It  was  an  age  of  excellent  nonsense  verse;  not  so  much 
talk  was  made  about  it  as  at  a later  date,  but  more  of 
it  was  written.  The  pages  of  St.  Nicholas  were  full  of 
it.  There  was  “The  Carnivoristicous  Ounce”  by  Mrs. 
M.  E.  Blake,  verses  which  the  attractive  young  hero  of 
Frank  Norris’s  “Blix”  was  fond  of  quoting: 

There  once  was  a beast  called  an  Ounce, 

Who  went  with  a spring  and  a bounce; 

H is  head  was  as  flat 
As  the  head  of  a cat, 

This  quadrupedantical  Ounce 

’Tical  Ounce, 

This  quadrupedantical  Ounce. 

He  sprang  on  his  prey  with  a pounce. 

And  gave  it  a jerk  and  a trounce ; 

Then  crunched  up  its  bones 
On  the  grass  or  the  stones, 

This  carnivoristicous  Ounce, 

’Ticous  Ounce, 

This  carnivoristicous  Ounce ! 


58  BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 

There  was  the  “Untaught  Sea-Urchin”  and  also: 

There  once  was  an  Ichthyosaurus, 

Who  lived  when  the  earth  was  all  porous, 

But  he  fainted  with  shame 
When  he  first  heard  his  name. 

And  departed  a long  time  before  us. 

Walking  through  Union  Square  one  afternoon,  a year 
or  two  ago,  and  talking  with  my  companion  about  these 
St.  Nicholas  days,  we  spoke  of  J.  G.  Francis,  his  mar- 
vellous pictures  of  animals,  and  the  rhymes  and  jokes 
which  accompanied  them.  I tried  to  recall  the  one  which 
always  pleased  me  most,  but  could  not  remember  it,  ex- 
cept in  bits.  I wonder  if  I were  not  walking  with  the 
only  man  in  New  York  that  day  who  could  have  recited 
it,  instantly  and  correctly?  It  was  Arthur  Guiterman, 
and  he  quoted : 

A Tam  o’  Shanter  Dog 
And  a plaintive  piping  Frog, 

With  a Cat  whose  one  extravagance  was  clothes, 

Went  to  see  a Bounding  Bug 
Dance  a jig  upon  a rug 
While  a Beetle  balanced  bottles  on  his  nose. 

Not  Guiterman,  no,  and  not  Swinburne,  ever  composed 
a line  more  delicious  than  that  last  one  about  the  Beetle, 
although  either  of  them  would  have  shied  at  the  rhyme 
of  nose  and  clothes.  It  used  to  vibrate  in  my  ears  like 
sweet  music  and  it  does  still.  Mr.  Francis’  cats,  rabbits, 
sheep,  and  best  of  all,  his  ducks  and  geese,  are  not  denied 
to  children  today,  for  his  “Book  of  Cheerful  Cats”  is 
issued  in  edition  after  edition.  The  same  artist  also  made 


By  J.  G.  Francis,  in  St.  Nicholas 


1. 2?.* 


V i-f.” 


i V iL^  y^' 


» ^-*  ' i-u'**  "- 

,.*  ' •'■  ./  ■ V V 


J*i  -•  I 


I MW 


_v 


f'lS^L  % '*  / 

■ K -- 


■.  ~.m 


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H|||<I  *• 

■ - ‘ <»*Sii»dK. 


WIZARDS  AND  ENCHANTERS 


59 

the  curious  old  Mexican  pictures,  the  “Aztec  Frag- 
ments” which  were  appearing  in  St.  Nicholas  in  ’87 
and  ’88. 

One  other  haunting  memory  centred  about  a page  of 
pictures  which  turned  out  to  be  illustrations  for  a story 
published  in  January  1883,  called  “Fairy  Wishes,  Now- 
adays” by  S,  A.  Shields.  Of  course  the  pictures  would 
be  remembered  by  anyone,  for  they  are  by  A.  B.  Frost. 
The  “Peterkin  Papers”  were  running  in  St.  Nicholas^ 
and  so  were  such  serial  stories  as  J.  T.  Trowbridge’s 
“Tinkham  Brothers’  Tide-Mill”  and  “His  One  Fault.” 
Palmer  Cox’s  “Brownies”  were  at  their  best.  But  if 
Frank  Stockton  was  the  pre-eminent  author,  the  finest 
story  in  the  world  was  “Davy  and  the  Goblin,”  which 
gave  me  more  pleasure  than  I have  found  in  the  Hundred 
Best  Books  or  the  Five  Foot  Shelf  or  the  Amalgamated 
World’s  Classics.  A member  of  a banking-firm  has  told 
me  they  had  recently  among  their  customers  a certain 
Mr.  Carryl ; once  or  twice  he  had  seen  him  in  the  offices, — 
a little,  silvery-haired  gentleman  of  distinguished  ap- 
pearance. Only  when  his  death  was  announced  in  the 
papers  did  the  banker  learn  that  this  was  ever  so  much 
more  than  a mere  banking  customer;  he  was  Charles  E. 
Carryl!  “Why  didn’t  you  tell  me  who  he  was?”  he 
demanded  of  the  other  bankers.  “Oh,  I believe  he 
had  written  some  books,  once,”  said  they.  “Books!” 
exclaimed  my  friend,  “he  wrote  ‘Davy  and  the 
Goblin’ r 

Mr.  Carryl’s  only  other  books,  so  far  as  I am  aware, 
are  “The  Admiral’s  Caravan,”  which  includes  the  price- 
less poem  about  the  camel,  and  a book  of  short  stories 


6o 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


for  adults,  “The  River  Syndicate.”  Mr.  Reginald  Birch 
made  the  pictures  for  “The  Admiral’s  Caravan”  as  Mr. 
Bensell  did  for  “Davy,”  so  again  we  have  these  two 
admirable  artists  helping  to  enhance  the  work  of  one 
author.  “Davy,”  in  book  form  is  dedicated  to  the 
author’s  little  son,  Guy  Wetmore  Carryl,  later  to  become 
distinguished  as  a poet,  inheriting  his  father’s  metrical 
ingenuity.  It  is  a surprise  to  find  how  quickly  the  story 
came  and  went  in  St.  Nicholas;  the  first  chapters  ap- 
peared in  the  number  for  December  1884,  and  the  last 
of  them  in  the  following  March.  Between  those  months 
the  Cockalorum  arrived,  perched  upon  Davy’s  hat,  as 
Davy  and  the  hat  went  whirling  through  space,  softly 
murmured  his  beautiful  name,  and  flapped  heavily  away. 
Davy  fell  through  the  barley-sugar  sky-light  and  thereby 
enraged  the  Hole-keeper,  who  might  easily  be  forgiven, 
since  he  was  in  danger  of  being  boiled.  Sham-Sham,  the 
sole  survivor  of  the  famous  Forty-Thieves  appeared,  and 
demonstrated  his  peculiar  method  of  treating  a pot  full 
of  boiling  watches.  The  Cockalorum  fell  ill,  to  the 
alarm  of  his  friends,  and  Sindbad  recited  “A  capital  ship 
for  an  ocean  trip,”  a song  which  has  since  been  trolled 
out  by  thousands  of  soloists  and  glee-clubs,  without  any 
notion  of  its  origin.  Ribsy,  the  cab-horse,  gallops  up, 
drawing  the  cab  which  was  so  strangely  furnished  with  a 
bath-tub,  whose  faucets  exuded  nothing  but  dust  and 
bits  of  gravel.  Ribsy  recites: 

As  spry  as  a kid  and  as  trim  as  a spider 
Was  I in  the  days  of  the  Turnip-top  Hunt, 

When  I used  to  get  rid  of  the  weight  of  my  rider 
And  canter  contentedly  in  at  the  front. 


"i'm  A COCKAUMirM."  Hr.  yOKTLY  MCKMI-REU. 


By  permission  Houghton  MifRin  Co, 


From  “Davy  and  the  Goblin’’ 


WIZARDS  AND  ENCHANTERS 


6i 


It  made  me  a wreck  with  no  hope  of  improvement, 

Too  feeble  to  race  with  an  invalid  crab; 

I’m  wry  in  the  neck  with  a rickety  movement 
Peculiarly  suited  for  driving  a cab. 

“And  canter  contentedly  in  at  the  front” — how  does  the 
famous  ‘'Quadrupedante  putrem”  line  in  Virgil  excel 
that?  Davy  visits  Robinson  Crusoe  and  hears  another 
famous  poem,  beginning:  “The  night  was  thick  and  hazy, 
When  the  ‘Piccadilly  Daisy.’  ” Other  adventures  fol- 
low, the  Cockalorum  recovers  from  his  indisposition,  and 
the  believing  voyage  comes  to  an  end. 

As  Charles  E.  Carryl’s  book  was  hardly  inferior  to  those 
of  his  great  predecessor,  Lewis  Carroll  (he  acknowledges 
his  debt  to  “Alice  in  Wonderland”)  so  we  had  in  Mrs. 
Laura  E.  Richards  a writer  of  nonsense  verse  and  humor- 
ous poetry  who  does  not  suffer  by  comparison  with 
Edward  Lear.  The  longer  poems  of  Lear,  such  as  “The 
Owl  and  the  Pussy-Cat,”  “The  Dong  with  the  Luminous 
Nose,”  “The  Pelican  Chorus”  constitute  the  best  work 
of  this  distinguished  pioneer  in  nonsense  writing.  His 
limericks,  about  which  a great  deal  of  undiscriminating 
praise  is  uttered,  are,  with  half  a dozen  exceptions,  in- 
ferior in  construction  to  those  by  some  later  writers. 
Lear’s  last  line  is  a repetition,  both  of  rhyme  and  idea, 
of  his  first  line,  and  so  he  cannot  equal  for  humorous 
effect  the  limericks  in  which  the  surprise  is  coincident 
with  the  end  of  the  poem.  The  limerick  is  worthy  of 
respect.  Mr.  Brander  Matthews,  in  “A  Study  of  Versi- 
fication,” declares  that  it  “has  the  distinction  of  being 
the  only  form  which  is  actually  indigenous  to  English. 
. . . The  limerick  alone  seems  to  have  been  born  where 


62 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


the  English  tongue  is  spoken.”  And  so  it  is  worth  re- 
membering that  although  some  of  Lear’s  are  unsurpassed 
as  nonsense  verses,  they  do  not  qualify  as  perfect  limer- 
icks. To  show  what  I mean,  let  me  quote  two  examples, 
— one  by  Edward  Lear,  and  one  which  is  anonymous. 
Here  is  a typical  one  (not  a pure  nonsense  verse)  by  Lear : 

There  was  an  old  man  in  a pew 
Whose  waistcoat  was  spotted  with  blue; 

But  he  tore  it  in  pieces 
To  give  to  his  nieces, 

That  cheerful  old  man  in  a pew. 

The  anonymous  example  which  follows,  is  not  a non- 
sense verse  at  all ; it  neither  employs  nonsense  words  nor 
is  the  incident  in  any  way  impossible  or  even  improbable. 
We  have  all  known  many  young  persons  like  Maud.  But 
in  construction,  in  keeping  the  climax  for  the  last  word 
of  the  stanza,  it  approaches  perfection.  Lear  repeats  the 
rhyme-word,  “pew”;  the  anonymous  writer  introduces  a 
fresh,  although  not  a perfect,  rhyme: 

There  was  a young  lady  named  Maud, 

And  she  was  a terrible  fraud; 

To  eat  at  the  table 
She  never  was  able. 

But  out  in  the  pantry — Oh,  Lord ! 

But  this  arose  from  speaking  of  Mrs.  Laura  E.  Richards, 
and  her  humorous  poetry  for  children,  which  like  all  the 
really  good  work  in  this  field,  may  be  enjoyed  by  the 
children’s  parents  without  loss  of  self-respect.  I do  not 
seem  to  find  Mrs.  Richards’  successor  among  the  writers 
of  today;  perhaps  I do  not  search  carefully  enough.  Mr. 


By  permission  Houghton  Mifflin  Co. 

From  “Davy  and  the  Goblin’’ 


?jpr  » 


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V#»»MA • *‘  >r  ;-  i ' '#v>  • ^ \ 


'---■^"^'1  ■ ■ 7 sx*ua?PH  -- 
^C:*^  >•*'»  •* 


■4. 


■_  ^.*L' 

r i ^-: 


- V! 


WIZARDS  AND  ENCHANTERS  63 

Roosevelt  refers  to  her  verses  about  the  Whale,  "with  a 
feather  in  his  tail,  who  lived  in  the  Greenland  sea”  and 
also  to  what  he  calls  "the  delightfully  light-hearted 
‘Young  Man  from  New  Mexico,  Who  lost  his  Grand- 
mother out  in  the  snow,’  ” My  book  did  not  contain 
these.  It  is  called  “Sketches  and  Scraps”  and  I notice 
that  it  was  given  me  at  Christmas,  1884.  The  colored 
pictures  are  by  Henry  Richards,  and  few  works  of  art 
are  so  familiar  to  me  as  every  detail  of  these,  from  the 
heavily  dyed  beard  on  the  servitor  of  Bobbily  Boo,  the 
king  so  free,*  to  the  monocle  in  the  eye  of  the  Fourth 
Turk,  who  is  coming  out  to  battle  with  Ponsonby 
Perks. t But  the  longer  ballads  are  the  chief  joys  of 
Mrs.  Richards’  book.  There  is  "The  Seven  Little  Tigers 
and  their  Aged  Cook.” 

Seven  little  Tigers  they  sat  them  in  a row, 

Their  seven  little  dinners  for  to  eat, 

And  each  of  the  troop  had  a little  plate  of  soup, 

The  effect  of  which  was  singularly  neat. 

The  Tigers  at  their  well  ordered  table,  the  blue  china 
on  the  dresser,  the  portrait  of  the  ancestor,  and  the  ar- 
morial crests  in  the  stained  glass  window,  make  up  the 
picture  which  accompanies  the  opening  stanza.  The 
poem  proceeds  into  deep  shades  of  tragedy. 

• He  used  to  drink  the  Mango  Tea 
Mango  Tea  and  Coffee  too, 

He  drank  them  both  till  his  nose  turned  blue. 

t He  fought  with  Turks, 

Performing  many  wonderful  works. 

He  killed  over  forty. 

High  minded  and  haughty. 

And  cut  off  their  heads  with  smiles  and  smirks. 


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BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


There  was  also  the  Frog,  who  lived  in  a bog,  on  the 
banks  of  Lake  Okeefinokee,  but  the  chef-d' ceuvre  is  prob- 
ably 

The  tale  of  the  little  Cossack, 

Who  lived  by  the  river  Don. 

He  sat  on  a sea-green  hassock, 

And  his  grandfather’s  name  was  John. 

His  grandfather’s  name  was  John,  my  dears, 

And  he  lived  upon  bottled  stout, 

And  when  he  was  found  to  be  not  at  home, 

He  was  frequently  found  to  be  out. 

The  tale  of  the  little  Cossack, 

He  sat  by  the  river  side. 

And  wept  when  he  heard  the  people  say 
That  his  hair  was  probably  dyed. 

That  his  hair  was  probably  dyed,  my  dears. 

And  his  teeth  were  undoubtedly  sham, 

“If  this  be  true,”  quoth  the  little  Cossack, 

What  a poor  little  thing  I am !” 

The  tale  of  the  little  Cossack, 

He  sat  by  the  river’s  brim. 

And  he  looked  at  the  little  fishes. 

And  the  fishes  looked  back  at  him. 

The  fishes  looked  back  at  him,  my  dears, 

And  winked  at  him,  which  was  wuss, 

“If  this  be  true,  my  friend,”  they  said, 

“You’d  better  come  down  to  us.” 

*!*:**♦  * 

Other  names  of  writers  which  return  to  me  from  these 
years  are  Mark  Twain,  whose  two  most  famous  stories, 
as  well  as  that  excellent,  dramatic  tale,  “The  Prince  and 
the  Pauper,”  were  then  easily  obtainable  with  all  the 


THE  SEVEN  LITTLE  TIGERS 

AND  THE  AGED  COOK 

Seven  little  Tigers  they  sat  them  in  a row, 

Their  seven  little  dinners  for  to  eat, 

And  each  of  the.  troop  had  a little  plate  of  soup, 
'I'he  effect  of  which  was  singularly  neat. 


Copyright  by  Estes  & Lauriat 


WIZARDS  AND  ENCHANTERS  65 

original  illustrations;  Jules  Verne;  Louisa  Alcott,  whose 
“Jack  and  Jill”  has  left  a dim  recollection  as  a book  of 
peculiar  charm,  although  I cannot  recall  what  that  charm 
was;  and  of  course,  Lewis  Carroll.  Of  his  two  most 
famous  books  it  would  be  repetitious  to  speak;  but  the 
thought  of  his  curious  two-volume  work  detains  me.  I 
mean  “Sylvie  and  Bruno.”  The  illustrations  by  Harry 
Furniss  are  hardly  less  ingenious  and  interesting  than  the 
Tenniel  pictures  for  the  Alice  books.  Mr.  Furniss’s  own 
volume  of  recollections  furnishes  some  odd  sidelights 
upon  Lewis  Carroll.  I have  the  first  part  of  “Sylvie  and 
Bruno”;  for  the  second,  I must  go  to  dealers  in  first  edi- 
tions, and  to  them  I can  only  say,  in  the  words  of  the 
Mad  Hatter:  “Fm  a poor  man,  your  Majesty.”  It  is 
noticeable  that  the  Hatter  went  down  on  one  knee,  as  he 
said  it,  and  that  he  lost  his  bread-and-butter^ — token  of 
what  happens  if  you  frequent  dealers  in  first  editions. 

The  publishers  of  “Sylvie  and  Bruno”  issue  it  now 
only  in  a one  volume  edition;  a condensed  version  for 
children.  I would  speak  to  them,  harshly,  about  this, 
if  it  were  not  for  {a)  the  fact  that  I have  great  respect 
for  their  taste  in  authors,  and  {b)  it  is  possible  that  they 
know  what  they  are  about  in  this  instance.  Few  would 
care  for  the  complete  work  today;  it  is  a strange  mixture 
of  juvenile  fiction,  religion  for  grown  people,  and  a dozen 
other  things.  Yet,  everything  considered,  a book  to  covet. 

In  the  shelf  where  many  of  these  books  stand,  I notice 
one  other,  stained  with  paste  and  rain-drops,  and  earth. 
It  tells  how  to  make  a hundred  un-useful  and  delightful 
things:  “The  American  Boy’s  Handy  Book,”  by  Dan 
Beard.  I sometimes  see  the  author  on  the  street,  and 


66 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


long  to  stop  him  and  tell  him  how  much  string,  and 
gun-powder,  and  glue,  and  buckshot,  and  how  many 
fish-hooks  and  eels’  ears  and  other  things  I employed  in 
trying  to  follow  his  recipes — and  what  a good  time  I had. 


Boots  for  Horizontal  Rain.  By  Harry  Furniss  in 
“Sylvie  and  Bruno” 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  CURIOUS  BOOKS,  I 


IT’ 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  SEARCH  FOR  CURIOUS  BOOKS,  I 

TO  discover  one  curious  book  requires  long  search, 
and  great  patience.  How  long  it  takes,  I do  not 
know;  I have  been  hunting  for  years,  and  never  yet — 
unaided — have  I found  one.  The  term  curious,  especially 
in  the  form  Curiosa,  is  in  bad  repute.  In  book-sellers’ 
catalogues  it  denotes  a certain  unchanging  type  of  mild 
pornography, — just  bad  enough  to  invite  a leer,  and  not 
actually  bad  enough  to  be  prohibited.  In  short,  bait  for 
freshmen  and  sophomores.  The  most  tiresome  shelf  in 
a book-shop  is  that  row  of  red  and  white  books  which 
comprises  the  six  or  seven  erotic  classics  of  Italy  and 
France.  The  most  unimaginative  type  of  book-seller  is 
the  one  who  always  responds  to  a mention  of  Mark  Twain 
by  ofFering  a copy  of  “1601.”  There  are  two  humbugs 
created  by  this  class  of  book : the  man  who  pretends  never 
to  read  nor  enjoy  any  of  them;  and  the  man  who  repeats 
hypocrisies  about  “style”  and  “artistic  achievement”  and 
gives  every  reason  but  his  true  one  for  reading  them. 
Book-sellers  recognize  from  afar  the  “student,”  or  “schol- 
arly” investigator,  who  is  leading  gradually  up  to  a re- 
quest for  some  notorious  book.  Eugene  Field,  whose  ex- 
cursions into  this  realm  (in  all  shades,  from  pink  to 
bright  scarlet)  are  possibly  not  worth  the  whispering 

they  have  caused,  wrote  a good  poem  in  the  one  called 

69 


70 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


“Boccaccio.”  Another  honest  reference  to  the  subject  is 
in  Mr.  Edwin  Meade  Robinson’s  excellent  novel,  “Enter 
Jerry.”  Best  of  all,  in  its  frank  and  humorous  admission 
of  human  weakness  and  natural  curiosity  about  such 
writings,  is  John  Hay’s  letter  about  Mark  Twain’s  ex- 
periment in  the  vein  of  Rabelais.  To  pull  a few  proofs 
of  the  story,  he  writes  in  mock  austerity,  is  highly  attrac- 
tive and  of  course  highly  immoral,  “but  if  you  take  these 
proofs  in  spite  of  my  prohibition,  save  me  one.” 

But  I have  been  led  astray  while  pointing  out  that 
this  chapter  is  not  about  “Curiosa.”  Instead,  it  is  about 
those  odd  and  unusual  books  which  either  deal  with  a 
strange  subject,  or  which  by  their  manner  fall  into  a 
peculiar  class  of  their  own, — not  infrequently  the  class 
of  unintentional  humor.  Works  on  astrology  or  witch- 
craft, and  the  Seventeenth  Century  volumes  on  medicine, 
domestic  remedies,  and  charms,  are  examples  of  the  one 
kind;  the  Portuguese  manual  for  conversation  in  our 
language,  “English  as  She  is  Spoke,”  is  cme  of  the  other 
kind. 

To  discover  such  a book  is  as  hard  today  as  to  find 
a new  island.  There  is  a legend  in  one  of  Stevenson’s 
stories  about  a party  of  wanderers  who  came  upon  a very 
old  man  shod  with  iron.  He  asked  them  whither  they 
were  going,  and  they  answered:  “To  the  Eternal  City!” 
He  looked  upon  them  gravely.  “I  have  sought  it,”  he 
said,  “over  the  most  part  of  the  world.  Three  such  pairs 
as  I now  carry  on  my  feet  have  I worn  out  upon  this  pil- 
grimage, and  now  the  fourth  is  growing  slender  under- 
neath my  steps.  And  all  this  while  I have  not  found 
the  city.” 


THE  SE.\RCH  FOR  CURIOUS  BOOKS,  I 71 

I feel  like  this  old  man  with  the  iron  shoes.  For  foor 
or  five  or  six  presidentiads — as  Walt  Whitman  woold 
sav,  in  his  simple  and  xmamected  style — I have  stood 
gaping  at  book-shelves  in  libraries.  On  sr2zhiz  hot  eve- 
nings in  summer  I have  wandered  throegh  those  riass 
and  steel  furnaces  called  book-stacks,  or  stood 
upon  my  head  to  peer  into  dark  comers  on  the  lower 
shelves  of  older,  dustier,  libraries  and  bookshops.  “And 
all  the  while  I have  not  found  the  dry.”  Xever  have  I 
scored  oc  my  own  bat;  the  best  of  my  luck  has  been  to 
make  discoveries  at  second  hand,  to  £nd  in  some  other 
man’s  book  the  record  of  what  he  had  chanced  upon.  So, 
in  a volume  by  Mr.  Gosse.  I rhV.k,  I came  txzxxi  his  essay 
on  Thomas  .Vmory  and  was  led  thereby  to  read  Tor  to 
read  «)  .Amory's  prepostercus  feat  of  tmcccsdocs 
humor:  “The  Life  and  OpinicEs  of  John  Bcncic.  Esc.” 
This  Ei^teenm  Century  novel  b now  so  pocular 
a modem  editioc  has  been  printed;  anybody  may  read 
it,  and  wonder  if  .Amory  could  have  written  in  entire 
serioumess  the  adventures  of  his  absurd  hero  who  wan- 
dered about  Fn.ri.~-d  and  Ireland,  marrying  cue  afto’ 
another  seven  young  ladies  of  matchless  beauty  and  pro- 
found learning.  No  odder  book,  says  !^lr.  Gossc.  was 
published  in  England  throughout  the  long  life  of  the 
author.  “.Amcry  was  a fervid  admirer  of  wrmankmd, 
and  he  favored  a rate  type,  the  learned  lady  who  bears 
her  leamZng  lighriy  and  can  discuss  the  cuadrariocs  of 
curvilinear  spaces’  witheut  ceasing  to  be  *a  bcunctng; 
dear  delightful  girl’  and  adroit  in  the  prepararicn  of 
toast  and  chocotare.”  Jeon  Bcncle.  so  unctuously  named, 
mourned  and  married  hb  seven  wives  with  such  machine- 


72 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


like  regularity  that  the  holiness  of  matrimony  seems  to 
disappear  under  his  observances  of  it  more  completely 
than  wheri  the  ceremony  is  quite  disregarded  by  a hero 
of  the  tribe  of  Don  Juan.  His  learned  heroines  were 
the  first,  perhaps,  of  a long  line.  The  modest  and  elegant 
female  (is  her  name  Edna  Earle?)  in  “St.  Elmo”  could 
discuss  abstruse  philosophy  as  easily  as  the  different  Mrs. 
Buncles  could  soar  off  into  the  higher  mathematics.  The 
type  recurs.  Mr.  Robert  Chambers  invented  one  young 
heroine  who  conversed  with  the  hero  in  Latin;  while  Miss 
Edna  Ferber  recently  tried  to  make  her  readers  believe 
in  a flapper  of  seventeen  who  could  command  the  vo- 
cabulary of  a Ph.D.  of  Berlin  or  Vienna. 


The  shelf  which  holds  the  slang  dictionaries  is  a happy 
hunting  ground.  The  slang  dictionary  is,  in  one  way  of 
looking  at  it,  a profanation,  like  a collection  of  dead 
butterflies.  The  life  of  these  vivid  words  and  phrases 
was  on  the  lips  of  the  people;  it  is  terrible  to  have  them 
pawed  about  by  fussy  lexicographers,  to  see  them  chloro- 
formed, pinned,  and  spread  out  for  display  in  the  even 
columns  of  a printed  book.  He  must  have  given  a nar- 
cotic to  his  sense  of  the  ridiculous  who  can  set  down  in 
ink:  “Let  'er  go^  Gallegher!  An  expression  signifying  a 
readiness  to  proceed.”  Every  slang  dictionary  is,  of 
course,  out  of  date  before  the  printers  can  finish  it ; many 
of  them  are  full  of  the  most  absurd  blunders  and  mis- 
conceptions. The  most  complete  slang  dictionary  in 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  CURIOUS  BOOKS,  I 73 

English  is  “Slang  and  Its  Analogues,  Past  and  Present,” 
in  which  the  original  compiler,  John  S.  Farmer,  was 
joined  after  the  second  volume  by  W,  E.  Henley.  This 
extraordinarily  interesting  work,  which  adds  to  the  Eng- 
lish synonyms  others  in  French,  German  and  Italian,  is 
made  remarkable  by  its  extracts  and  examples  quoted 
from  all  contributions  to  English  letters,  from  Chaucer 
and  earlier  writers  down  p the  newspapers  of  1904,  the 
date  of  the  final  volume. 

As  the  compilers  were  thorough  in  their  work,  and  as 
slang  is  the  speech  of  the  people,  not  the  studied  language 
of  literature,  some  pages  of  the  work  are  hardly  for  the 
]eune  fille.  A copy  which  I have  seen  contains  a manu- 
script note  saying — I know  not  on  what  authority — 
that  after  the  second  volume  was  printed,  the  printer 
refused  to  proceed  with  the  work,  asserting  that  his  com- 
positors’ modesty  was  outraged  and  that  they  objected 
to  putting  it  into  type ! This  discovery  of  such  squeamish 
printers  recalls  the  peculiar  crew  of  Captain  Hook’s 
pirate-ship  in  “Peter  Pan” — especially  the  pirate  who 
used  to  work  at  a sewing-machine,  and  cry  because  he 
had  no  mother. 

Their  evil  geniuses  constantly  inspire  Englishmen  to 
write  lexicons  of  American  slang,  or  to  include  definitions 
of  Americanisms  in  general  works  on  slang.  Francis 
Grose  was  probably  the  first  to  venture  into  these  dan- 
gerous paths;  his  “Classical  Dictionary  of  the  Vulgar 
Tongue”  appeared  in  1785.  He  defined  but  few  Ameri- 
canisms, but  the  day  when  I found  one  of  them  remains 
in  my  mind  like  that  on  which  Cortez  stood  silent  on 
his  peak  in  Darien.  This  is  it: 


74 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


To  Gouge.  To  squeeze  out  a man’s  eye  with  the 
thumb : a cruel  practise  used  by  the  Bostonians  in 
America, 

The  gem  of  such  definitions,  of  course,  is  the  famous 
entry  under  “Jag”  in  John  S.  Farmer’s  “Americanisms, — 
Old  and  New,”  published  in  London  in  1889.  Mr. 
Farmer  starts  well: 

Jag.  In  New  England  a parcel;  bundle;  or  load. 

An  old  English  provincialism  which  held  ground  col- 
loquially across  the  Atlantic. 

Cleveland  was  forced  up  7J/2  cents  by  the  persistent 
bidding  of  one  broker  buying  a heavy  order.  He  occa- 
sionally caught  a Jag  of  2,000  or  3,000  shares,  but  kept 
on  bidding  as  if  Cleveland  were  the  only  thing  dear 
to  him  on  earth  . . . Missouri  Republican  1888. 

But  he  continues: 

Jag  is  also  a slang  term  for  an  umbrella,  possibly 
from  that  article  being  so  constantly  carried. 

And  he  proceeds  to  prove  this  by  a quotation  from 
the  Albany  Journal'. 

He  came  in  very  late  (after  an  unsuccessful  effort  to 
unlock  the  front  door  with  his  umbrella)  through  an 
unfastened  coal-hole  in  the  sidewalk.  Coming  to  him- 
self toward  daylight,  he  found  himself — spring  over- 
coat, silk  hat,  Jag  and  all — stretched  out  in  the  bath-tub. 

In  justice  to  Mr.  Farmer  it  should  be  said  that  he 
learned  as  he  proceeded.  His  “Slang  and  its  Analogues,” 
of  which  the  first  volume  was  published  in  1890,  aban- 
dons the  umbrella  and  defines  “jag”  briefly  but  correctly. 
This  work  shows  a vast  improvement  in  accuracy  over 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  CURIOUS  BOOKS,  I 75 

the  earlier  one;  I have  not  found  in  it  any  error  in  de- 
fining American  slang. 

As  late  as  1909  Mr.  J.  Redding  Ware,  author  of  “Pass- 
ing English  of  the  Victorian  Era,”  essayed  the  definition 
of  much  American  slang.  His  success  may  be  explained 
by  supposing  that  he  had  attended  a college  said  to  exist 
in  Great  Britain  for  the  purpose  of  teaching  ignorance 
about  things  American.  We  have  a branch  of  it  in  Amer- 
ica in  which  ignorance  about  England  is  inculcated.  Mr. 
W.  J.  Ghent,  in  a review  of  the  book,  suggested  that  Mr. 
Ware  lighted  a lamp,  retired  into  a closet,  and  evolved 
a meaning  from  his  inner  consciousness, — like  the  Ger- 
man scholar  with  the  dromedary.  How  else,  asked  Mr. 
Ghent,  could  he  have  defined  “stuck-up”  as  meaning 
“moneyless — very  figurative  expression  derived  from  be- 
ing ‘stuck-up’  by  highwaymen,”  after  which,  this  ety- 
mologist profoundly  remarks,  “You  have  no  money  left 
in  your  pocket.” 

Some  other  oddities  of  Mr.  Ware’s  book  were  men- 
tioned by  Mr.  Ghent.  A chump  (not  exclusively  an 
Americanism)  is  defined  as  “a  youth  (as  a rule)  who 
is  in  any  way  cheated  of  his  money — especially  by  the 
so-called  gentler  sex.”  “Snakes”  is  given,  in  Anglo- 
American  slang,  as  meaning  “danger”  so  “snakes  alive” 
(wholly  American)  is  “worse  than  snakes.”  Naturally 
the  latter  is  too  horrible  to  consider.  Why  Mr.  Ware 
should  say  that  axe-grinders  are  “men  who  grumble, 
especially  politically,”  is  hard  to  understand,  since  he 
has  given,  directly  above,  the  correct  definition  of  “axe 
to  grind.” 

A few  more  misunderstandings,  not  mentioned  by  Mr. 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


76 

Ghent,  occur  in  “Passing  English.”  For  example,  Mr. 
Ware  evidently  knows  nothing  of  the  command  to  “dry 
up!”  He  is  content  to  say  that  the  phrase  means  “to 
cease  because  effete” — from  mountain  torrents  which  dry 
up  in  summer.  “Foxes,”  he  says,  are  “people  of  Maine — 
probably  owing  to  the  foxes  which  prevail  there.”  He 
heard  of  an  American  oath  which  he  calls  “Gaul  darned.” 
(Obviously,  a term  applied  to  anything  condemned  in 
Gaul.)  His  book  is  strong  on  our  oaths — “Jee,”  he  de- 
clares, is  “an  oath-like  expression.  First  syllable  of 
Jerusalem.  ‘Jee!  You  don’t  dare  to  do  it!’”  (Both 
“Jee”  and  “Gaul-darned”  give  evidence  that  Mr.  Ware 
learned  his  American  oaths  by  ear.)  “Red  peppers,”  he 
suggests,  is  another  American  “form  of  swearing.”  “Jag” 
is  again  a stumbling-block.  Mr.  Ware  finds  it  to  be  a 
Spanish-American-English  phrase  to  express  a “desire  to 
use  a knife  against  somebody — to  jag  him.”  “Wake- 
snakes”  means  “provoke  to  the  uttermost.”  And  to 
“Whoop  up”  is  an  Americanism  signifying  “to  tune  a 
musical  instrument.” 

“Bull-doze”  is  defined  as  “political  bullying.”  But 
the  lexicographer  is  not  content  with  this — he  must  quote 
an  anecdote,  “ ‘VVhat  do  they  mean  by  bull-dozing?’ 
asked  an  inquisitive  wife  the  other  evening.  ‘I  suppose 
they  mean  a bull  that  is  half  asleep.’  And  the  injured 
one  kept  on  with  her  sewing,  but  said  nothing.”  This, 
writes  Mr.  Ware,  “will  show  that  even  in  the  U.  S.  A. 
themselves,  this  term  is  not  fully  understood.”  “Dod- 
rottedest”  is  “an  example  of  evasive  swearing.”  That 
is  very  true,  but  a little  disappointing.  He  defines  “Dime 
museum”  none  too  accurately,  and  adds  the  gratuitous 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  CURIOUS  BOOKS,  I 77 

remark  that  a dime  is  “the  eighth  of  a dollar.”  But  this 
is  enough  of  Mr.  Ware’s  curious  conjectures,  especially 
since  his  book,  so  far  as  it  concerns  Americanisms,  has 
again  been  flayed  in  a recent  authoritative  work  by  an 
American  writer,  Mr.  Gilbert  Tucker’s  “American  Eng- 
lish.” 


The  odd  or  curious  book  may  turn  up  in  the  course 
of  your  daily  work.  You  may  find  fun  even  in  an  index 
or  a table  of  contents.  A readable  index  denotes  a good 
book.  And  that  sounds  like  a quotation  from  the  book 
I am  thinking  about — “Kentucky  Superstitions”  by  D.  L. 
Thomas  and  Lucy  B.  Thomas.  It  has  a delightful  index. 
And  its  collection  of  signs,  omens,  and  beliefs  about  lost 
articles,  marriage,  death  and  burial,  sneezes,  cures  and 
preventives,  fire,  dreams,  moon  and  signs  of  the  zodiac, 
luck  at  cards,  witches  and  hoodoos,  and  many  other  mat- 
ters, make  it  a handy  book  of  reference  in  any  family. 
Handy,  that  is,  if  the  charms  are  good  outside  Kentucky. 
Some  of  them  are  a bit  complicated — I am  not  sure  that 
the  reward  is  worth  the  trouble  in  this  one:  “After  you 
have  taken  a newly  made  quilt  from  the  frame,  toss  a 
cat  into  it  to  make  the  quilt  puff  out.  The  girl  that  the 
cat  goes  towards  will  be  married  first.” 

Is  it  an  adequate  repayment  for  walking  twenty-one 
rails  of  a railroad  track  to  find  under  the  twenty-first  a 
hair  of  the  same  color  as  that  of  your  destined  husband 
or  wife?  “Turkeys  dance  before  rain,”  says  the  book.  I 
wonder  if  it  is  so;  I would  like  to  see  them.  “There  will 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


78 

be  rain  if  mice  cry  loudly  at  night.”  Here  is  one  with 
inter-state  jurisdiction:  “To  kill  a toad  will  cause  rain.” 
I can  vouch  for  that  absolutely;  it  was  true  in  Massa- 
chusetts as  far  back  as  1888.  Nobody  ever  killed  a toad 
then  without  at  least  a shower,  within  a week  or  two. 
Tom  Sawyer  never  knew  this  one:  “If  you  are  troubled 
by  witches,  it  is  a good  plan  to  sleep  with  a meal 
sifter  over  the  face.  When  the  witches  come  to  worry 
you,  they  are  compelled  to  pass  back  and  forth  through 
every  mesh.  By  this  time  you  will  have  had  sufficient 
sleep  and  can  get  up.” 

One  of  the  greatest  discoveries  was  when  Mr.  Lucas’s 
elderly  hero  walked  into  Bemerton’s  book-shop  and 
bought,  on  chance,  the  fifty-fifth  book  from  the  first  shelf 
on  the  left,  as  high  as  his  heart.  It  was  a “fat  volume  in 
a yellow  paper  cover,  for  which  I had  to  pay  two  solid 
English  pounds.”  There  are  thousands,  millions  of 
people — even  book-dealers — who  have  never  seen  “A 
Chinese  Biographical  Dictionary”  by  Herbert  A.  Giles, 
published  in  Shanghai  by  Kelly  & Walsh.  Some  folk 
have  even  been  known  to  question  its  existence.  In  spite 
of  them,  however,  it  is  a real  and  rather  heavy  book  of 
over  a thousand  pages,  containing  biographical  sketches 
of  2579  men  and  women  who  lived  in  China  any  time 
during  the  last  three  thousand  years.  The  copy  which 
I am  fortunate  enough  to  possess  came  with  its  yellow 
covers  unspotted,  wrapped  in  a Chinese  newspaper,  and 
smelling  pleasantly  of  the  aromatic  and  mysterious  East. 
As  it  was  printed  in  Holland,  I suppose  it  has  crossed 
two  oceans.  Mr.  Lucas  has  quoted  much  from  it,  but  the 
field  is  large,  and  the  harvest  so  tempting  that  I can 


iV  + c^  \r  l^ay  ^ ^ S ^ ^ ^4'  ^>>V  .^- 


The  Learned  Pan  Chao 

(These  Chinese  portraits  are  from  Wan  Seaon  Tang  Hwa  Chuen,  published  1743) 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  CURIOUS  BOOKS,  I 79 

gather  in  some  more,  and  still  not  exhaust  the  possibili- 
ties of  the  book  for  its  readers. 

Its  fascination  is  explained  by  a number  of  things. 
First,  it  is  so  long  that  you  could  not  possibly  read  it 
through — even  if  you  were  silly  enough  to  want  to  do 
so — in  one,  two,  or  three  sittings.  Like  an  immense  jar 
of  Canton  preserved  ginger,  or  a barrel  of  brown  sugar 
in  the  pantry,  there  is  always  some  there  when  you  go 
back  for  more.  Next,  as  you  cannot,  unless  you  are  an 
erudite  Sinologist,  like  the  author,  remember  all  these 
Chinese  names,  you  are  constantly  forgetting  your  favor- 
ite characters,  losing  them  for  the  time  being,  when  you 
wish  to  read  to  your  friends  about  them,  and  then  having 
them  turn  up  again,  weeks  later,  when  you  are  hunting 
for  someone  else — which  is  delicious.  Third,  Dr.  Giles 
has  put  all  together  in  one  alphabet,  the  comic,  tragic, 
pathetic,  legendary,  historical,  mythical,  comical-histori- 
cal-pastoral personages  of  that  strange  and  great  country, 
paying  no  more  and  no  less  respect  to  a Chinese  states- 
man of  our  own  time  who  negotiated  a treaty  with  Russia 
in  1893,  than  to  an  old  man  four  thousand  years  ago  who 
offended  the  gods  by  slaying  two  of  their  pet  dragons, 
and  was  transported  to  the  moon  and  set  hoeing  millet 
there  forever  and  forever.  It  is  as  if  somebody  should 
write  a biographical  dictionary  of  England  and  America 
and  combine  in  one  list  King  Alfred,  Mr.  Hoover, 
Robin  Hood,  Mr.  Henry  Ford,  Nell  Gwynne,  Thomas 
Jefferson,  the  Bailiff’s  Daughter  of  Islington,  Jack 
Dempsey,  Lord  Beaconsfield,  the  Cheshire  Cat,  Mrs. 
Asquith,  Babe  Ruth,  and  the  Old  Man  of  Tarentum,  who 
gnashed  his  false  teeth  till  he  bent  ’em. 


8o 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


There  is  a strangely  modern  sound  about  the  deeds  of 
some  of  these  Chinese  worthies.  Take  Ou-yang  Hsiu, 
who,  although  he  died  as  long  ago  as  1072,  “used  his  in- 
fluence as  Examiner  to  check  the  growing  craze  for  eccen- 
tric writing  and  reasoning.”  He  was  the  author  of  an 
elaborate  treatise  on  the  peony,  was  fond  of  wine  and 
company,  and  described  himself  as  “the  drunken  Gov- 
ernor.” Liu  Po-to,  in  the  Third  Century  A.D.,  anticipated 
some  of  our  contemporaries  by  being  skilled  in  the  prep- 
aration of  a kind  of  whiskey.  “It  was  so  strong  that  a 
person  who  got  drunk  on  it  did  not  recover  his  senses 
for  a month.”  Another,  a statesman  named  Sang  Wei- 
han,  who  died  in  946,  was  high  in  favor  with  the 
Emperors  of  the  later  Chin  dynasty,  until,  daring  to  sug- 
gest a regency  while  the  Emperor  was  suffering  from 
delirium  tremens,  he  was  dismissed  to  a provincial  post. 
He  was  tremendously  ugly,  short  of  stature,  and  with 
a long  beard.  The  very  sight  of  him  made  people  sweat 
even  in  mid-winter.  But  he  used  to  stand  before  a mirror 
and  say:  “One  foot  of  face  is  worth  seven  of  body.” 
Hsii  Mo,  who  rose  to  be  President  of  the  Board  of 
Works  in  242,  suffered  from  certain  weaknesses — 
he  was  contemporary  with  Ts’ai  Yung,  whose  fame  as 
a wine-bibber,  he  rivalled,  if  not  eclipsed.  Evidently  the 
Chinese  government  were  trying  experiments  with  pro- 
hibition, for  “even  when  the  use  of  liquor  was  altogether 
forbidden  under  the  severest  penalties,  he  was  unable  to 
resist  the  temptation  of  occasionally  getting  drunk.”  In 
the  end,  however,  we  learn  that  he  was  canonized.  A 
good  literary  style  has  always  been  appreciated  in  state 
papers — especially  in  times  of  great  danger:  Han  Yu, 


Pan  Ku,  impeached  for  altering  the  national  history 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  CURIOUS  BOOKS,  I 8i 

who  was  born  A.D.  768,  found  his  neighborhood  troubled 
by  a huge  crocodile,  and  the  “denunciatory  ultimatum” 
which  he  addressed  to  the  monster  and  threw  into  the 
river,  together  with  a pig  and  a goat,  is  still  regarded  as 
a model  of  Chinese  composition. 

Chang  Yen-shang  was  a magistrate,  who,  on  the  occa- 
sion of  an  important  criminal  case,  refused  successive 
bribes  of  30,000  and  50,000  strings  of  cash,  but  his  virtue 
succumbed  to  an  offer  of  100,000  strings.  He  said  that 
100,000  strings  would  tempt  even  the  gods,  who  would 
resent  the  refusal  of  such  a bribe  by  a mere  mortal.  He 
died  at  the  age  of  61,  and  was  canonized.  Chao  Tun, 
of  the  Seventh  Century  B.C.,  was  the  minister  of  a stern 
tyrant,  Duke  Ling  of  Chin.  The  Duke  amused  himself 
by  shooting  at  his  passing  subjects  from  the  top  of  a 
tower;  also  he  put  his  cook  to  death  for  serving  some 
badly  prepared  bears’-paws.  Chao  Tun  remonstrated, 
and  fell  into  disfavor.  Ch’en  Ting  fled  from  the  offer  of 
a cabinet  position,  and  went  with  his  wife  into  the  coun- 
try, where  they  occupied  themselves  in  watering  plants. 
Stoicism  was  his  long  suit,  for  on  one  occasion  he  went 
without  food  until  he  could  neither  see  nor  hear.  His 
principles  were  so  lofty,  not  to  say  impossible,  that 
Mencius  declared  that  a man  would  have  to  be  an  earth- 
worm to  carry  them  out. 

Wang  Ch’iao  had  no  chariot  nor  horses,  but  used  to 
come  to  court  riding  on  a pair  of  wild  ducks.  One  day 
he  suddenly  announced  that  God  had  sent  for  him,  and 
after  duly  bathing,  he  lay  down  in  a jade  coffin  and  died. 
A learned  and  virtuous  lady  was  Ts’ai  Luan  of  the  Fourth 
Century  A.D.  She  studied  the  black  art  under  Hsiu 


82 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


Ying.  She  married  a man  named  Wen  Hsiao,  and  being 
very  poor  managed  to  earn  money  by  making  copies  of 
a rhyming  dictionary  which  she  sold.  I take  it  that  her 
husband  was  a poor  author  and  that  she  assisted  him; 
their  end  was  glorious,  for  after  ten  years  they  went  up 
to  Heaven  together  on  a pair  of  white  tigers. 

Li  Chin  was  a handsome  and  amiable  young  prince  of 
the  Eighth  Century  A.D.  A hard  drinker,  he  was  en- 
rolled as  one  of  the  Eight  Immortals  of  the  Wine  Cup. 
(This  was  one  of  the  two  little  groups  founded  by  Li 
Po,  the  poet.  The  other  was  the  Six  Idlers  of  the  Bam- 
boo Brook.  As  they  would  say  at  Yale,  Li  Chin  was 
not  tapped  for  the  Bamboo  Brook.)  Li  Chin  would 
swallow  three  large  stoups  of  liquor  before  going  to  court, 
and  yet  a cart  of  barm,  met  in  the  road,  would  make  his 
mouth  water  for  more.  He  had  some  imitation  gold  and 
silver  fishes  and  tortoises  which  he  used  to  swim  in  an 
artificial  pool  of  wine.  He  called  himself  “Prince  Fer- 
ment” and  also  “President  of  the  Board  of  Barm.”  Dr. 
Giles  warns  us  that  “his  name  has  been  wrongly  given 
by  some  as  Wang.” 

Contrast  with  this  tippler  the  austere  Yen  Shu  Tzu 
of  the  Fourth  Century  B.C.  He  was  a man  of  the  Lu 
State,  who  lived  alone.  One  night  a neighbor’s  house 
was  blown  down,  and  a girl  took  refuge  with  him.  Ac- 
cordingly he  sat  up  until  dawn,  holding  a lighted  lamp 
in  his  hand! 

Chiang  Shih,  who  lived  in  the  First  Century  A.D.,  was 
one  of  the  twenty-four  examples  of  filial  piety,  and  his 
wife  was  one  of  his  rivals  in  this  virtue.  She,  because  her 
mother-in-law  preferred  river  water,  used  to  trudge  sev- 


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THE  SEARCH  FOR  CURIOUS  BOOKS,  I 83 

eral  miles  every  day  to  fetch  it.  The  old  lady  was  also 
very  fond  of  minced  fish,  and  an  effort  was  made  to 
provide  her  with  it;  the  outcome  of  it  all  was  that  a 
spring  burst  forth  near  their  dwelling  with  a flavor  like 
river  water.  Daily  it  cast  out  on  the  bank  two  fine  carp. 
One  is  surprised  that  the  carp  did  not  proceed  to  mince 
each  other  for  her  benefit;  these  examples  of  filial  piety 
seem  to  have  dealt  in  fish  extensively.  There  is  another 
of  them — the  name  of  the  hero  escapes  me — who  went 
to  procure  his  stepmother,  or  mother-in-law,  the  fish  that 
she  craved,  and  on  finding  the  pond  frozen  over,  lay  down 
naked  on  the  ice,  thawed  out  a hole  with  the  heat  of  his 
body,  and  was  rewarded  with  the  conventional  “two  fine 
carp”  which  seem  to  have  been  the  perpetual  requirement 
of  mothers-in-law.  Another  fish  incident,  by  the  way, 
concerns  Chiang  Tzu-ya,  who  flourished  about  the  Elev- 
enth Century  B.C.  He  fished  with  a straight  piece  of 
iron  instead  of  a hook,  but  the  fish  readily  allowed  them- 
selves to  be  caught  in  order  to  satisfy  the  needs  of  this 
wise  and  virtuous  old  man. 

Chu  Hsi  led  an  exemplary  life — so  remarkably  that 
after  death,  to  the  embarrassment  of  his  family,  his  coffin 
took  up  a position  suspended  in  air,  about  three  feet  from 
the  ground.  Whereupon  his  son-in-law,  falling  upon 
his  knees  beside  the  bier,  reminded  the  departed  spirit 
of  the  great  principles  of  which  he  had  been  such  a bril- 
liant exponent  in  life — and  the  coffin  descended  gently 
to  the  ground. 

Li  Ch’ung,  of  the  Fourth  Century  A.D.,  used  to  attack 
with  a sword  anyone  he  foimd  injuring  the  cypresses 
about  his  father’s  grave.  He  was  secretary  to  Prime 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


•84 

Minister  Wang  Tao,  and  later  to  Ch’u  P’ou,  from  whom 
he  finally  accepted  a minor  office,  declaring  that  “a  mon- 
key in  difficulties  carmot  stop  to  choose  his  favorite  tree.” 
The  discovery  of  the  elixir  of  life  kept  many  of  these 
personages  busy;  one  of  them  poisoned  himself  and  died 
from  the  effects  of  some  of  it.  Liu  An,  however,  actu- 
ally discovered  the  precious  fluid,  drank,  and  rose  up  to 
Heaven  in  broad  daylight.  He  dropped  the  vessel  which 
had  contained  it  into  his  court-yard  as  he  rose,  his  dogs 
and  poultry  sipped  the  dregs,  and  immediately  sailed  up 
to  Heaven  after  him. 

There  was  a librarian  named  Wang  Chi,  of  the  Seventh 
Century  A.D.  He  obtained  a good  post  in  the  Imperial 
Library,  but  disliked  the  restraint  and  was  always  getting 
drunk.  He  retired,  kept  poultry,  and  grew  millet — 
from  which  he  produced  an  ardent  spirit!  He  wrote  a 
number  of  books  on  philosophy,  many  beautiful  poems, 
and  a short  skit  called  “Note  on  Drunk-land.” 

The  attractions  of  Tu  I (of  that  prolific  Fourth  Cen- 
tury A.D.)  are  somewhat  puzzling.  He  was,  says  Dr. 
Giles,  a type  of  manly  beauty.  “He  had  a complexion 
like  lard,  and  eyes  like  black  lacquer.” 


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THE  SEARCH  FOR  CURIOUS  BOOKS,  II 


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Li  Po,  much  patronized  by  modern  American  poets 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  SEARCH  FOR  CURIOUS  BOOKS,  II 

Book-collectors  are  divided  into  twelve  or  thirteen 
classes.  There  are  also,  in  relation  to  books,  certain 
sub-classes  of  human  beings,  who  will  some  day  be  in- 
vestigated and  explained.  These  include  the  families 
or  individuals  who  admit  into  their  dwellings  no  other 
books  except  the  Six  Well-Bound  Volumes  permitted  by 
interior  decorators  as  the  literary  ration  of  a home.  These 
are  precisely  placed  on  a table,  between  a pair  of  hand- 
some “book-ends”  (so  called  because  it  is  an  end  to  all 
normal  use  of  books  when  you  acquire  them)  and  may 
be  employed  for  pressing  flowers,  or  as  a place  in  which 
to  conceal  incriminating  documents.  Another  mystic  is 
the  man  or  woman  who  never  carries  a book  in  the  street 
unless  it  is  wrapped  in  paper.  Various  explanations  are 
given  of  this  person’s  mental  process.  It  has  been  urged 
that  she  is  safeguarding  the  book  against  inclement 
weather.  This  fails,  however,  since  the  custom  is  ob- 
served on  fair  days  as  well  as  foul.  There  is  a theory 
that  the  practice  is  part  of  that  scheme  of  gentility  which 
forbids  anything  unwrapped  ever  to  be  carried  in  the 
street, — any  more  than  afternoon  clothes  may  be  worn 
after  a certain  hour,  umbrellas  go  unfolded  when  not 
in  use,  or  the  human  hands  be  seen  in  disgraceful  naked- 
ness outside  the  house.  I think,  however,  that  it  is  none 

87 


88 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


of  these.  My  belief  is  that  the  plan  is  to  avoid  the  charge 
of  being  “literary,”  which  may  be  preferred  against  the 
open  and  shameless  conveyer  of  an  uncovered  book.  The 
book  concealed  in  paper  may  pass  for  a box  of  poker- 
chips,  a case  of  cosmetics,  an  opium  lay-out,  or  anything 
else  which  carries  no  social  stigma.  It  is  well  to  remember 
the  point  of  view.  A recently  married  pair  at  Niagara 
Falls  on  their  honeymoon,  were  dressing  for  dinner  in 
their  hotel  room.  The  husband,  whose  preparations  were 
finished,  sat  down  near  a table  and  picked  up  a magazine 
— a copy  of  “Snappy  Stories” — which  had  been  left 
by  a former  visitor.  The  bride  tip-toed  across  to  him, 
looked  over  his  shoulder  to  see  what  he  was  doing, 
and  exclaimed:  “My  God,  I’ve  married  a literary 
man!” 

The  book-collector  is  a man  of  wealth  who  assembles 
rare  or  unique  books,  early  printed  books,  and  first  edi- 
tions. There  is  some  danger  of  being  suspected  of  in- 
verted snobbery,  of  the  attitude  of  the  fox  toward  the 
grapes,  if  you  confess,  as  I do,  that  you  regard  his  treas- 
ures calmly  and  without  envy.  His  printed  books  of  the 
Fifteenth  Century  are  for  the  most  part  books  which  I 
cannot  read;  the  perusal  of  medieval  works  of  devotion 
is  not  one  of  my  pleasures.  As  objects  to  be  desired,  for 
their  own  sake,  without  regard  to  reading,  they  excite  me 
no  more  than  old  blue  china.  A Thackeray  or  Dickens 
novel  in  its  “original  parts,”  may  thrill  a collector,  as 
one  of  the  rarer  triangular  Cape  of  Good  Hope  stamps 
could  once  have  thrilled  me.  Otherwise  it  is  about  as 
convenient  as  an  automobile  in  its  original  parts. 

There  are  books  of  which  the  first  edition  is,  for  one 


A ri.AlSim.K  ^TOKV. 


r.a 


wliicli  no  mil'  c;iii  1 1-  of  wlio  li:n»  not  Im^  ii  in  null 

tilinilioii  jiinl  felt  tliiit  at  anv  iiioinciit  ilralli  ioi;’lit  i-oiiic. 
I*rv^riitly  a tlioiiolit  rujiiu  into  llin  Imlfs  ovi*.  ] l^iiuw  it ! ^ai•l 
I — if  iiiy  nerve  fails  now,  1 am  lont.  Sure  ciioiio|i,  it 
Ju>t  ua  I liail  clrvatied,  Lc  started  in  to  elimli  tlie  tree—'* 
‘•Wliat,  tlio 
bull'-’ 

“Of  course — 
wlioeUl” 

“ lint  a bull 
can’t  climbatri'c.” 

“lit!  can’t, 
can't  lie  ? Since 
Yon  know  so  nincli 
alaiiit  it,  did  yon 
ever  wo  a bull 
try 

“Xo!  I never 
dreamt  of  Mieli  a 
tllilio." 

••  W'.ll,  tben, 
wliat  is  the  use 
of  your  talkiiio 
lliat  way,  tlicn  ( 

Ik'caiisc _\ on  never 
haw  a lliiiio  iloiie, 
is  that  any  reason 
wliy  it  can’t  Ikj 
done?”  !' 

‘•Well,  all 
r i o li  I — on. 
bat  did  you 

do?’’ 

“ T b O bull  »C»1JM.II.  VS-EH.TIOSS. 

started  u)>,  and  p>t  nlonp  well  for  alamt  ten  fis't,  tlicn  hli|iped 
and  sliil  Isvck.  1 breatbcvl  easier,  lie  tried  it  apain — f?ot 

f’t 


"The  buffalo  climbing  up  the  tree  after  Bemis, 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  CURIOUS  BOOKS,  II  89 

reason  or  another,  highly  desirable,  and  others  of  which 
it  is  not  desirable  at  all.  So  long  as  I can  acquire  for  a 
dollar  a good,  fairly  early  edition  of  “Alice  in  Wonder- 
land,” in  which  the  plates  are  not  worn,  and  the  picture 
of  Alice  and  the  Mouse  on  page  26  is  sharp,  with  Alice’s 
hair  and  the  Mouse’s  whiskers  clear-cut,  I am  content. 
If  somebody  else,  who  can  do  so,  and  wishes  to  do  so, 
spends  $250  for  a first  edition  of  it  (which  is  really  the 
second  edition)  with  its  covers  liberally  spotted  with 
bread  and  butter, — why,  he  is  an  amusing  creature  and 
so  is  entitled  to  our  gratitude.  But  that  he  is  far  removed 
from  the  Queen,  in  Frank  Stockton’s  story,  who  collected 
button-holes,  or  Mark  Twain’s  collector  who  specialized 
in  buying  echoes,  is  something  which  I leave  to  book- 
dealers  to  maintain,  if  they  like. 

To  collect  and  worship  beautiful  book-bindings  is  to 
foster  a charming  art.  It  has  much  the  same  relation  to 
books  themselves  as  a collection  of  gems,  or  of  specimens 
of  carved  jade.  You  will  like  your  favorite  modern 
authors  in  some  “handsome”  and  “uniform”  binding  if 
you  look  upon  books  as  part  of  your  scheme  of  house- 
hold decoration.  If  the  book  in  itself,  in  its  associations 
with  the  days  when  you  first  loved  it,  in  connection  with 
what  really  made  it  a book — that  is,  the  work  of  author 
and  illustrator — if  these  things  are  important,  you  will 
prefer  your  old  copy  of  “Roughing  Itj”  in  its  frayed, 
black  cloth,  and  with  the  original  pictures,  especially  the 
one  of  the  buffalo  climbing  the  tree  after  Bemis.  And 
if  somebody  tells  you  that  its  market  value  is  about  a 
dollar  and  a quarter,  you  will  not  be  troubled.  There 
are  men  who  talk  as  if  authors  were  a kind  of  insect. 


90 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


allowed  to  exist  only  because  they  furnish  those  two 
great  artists,  the  printer  and  the  book-binder,  material 
for  their  really  important  creations. 

A collection  of  first  editions  may  be  extremely  fas- 
cinating. It  is  lack  of  discrimination  in  selecting  them, 
and  the  attempt  constantly  to  add  to  the  number  of  col- 
lectible authors  which  makes  them  absurd.  The  reader 
of  books  will  always  resent  it  if  books  which  he  could 
appreciate  are  gobbled  up  by  someone  who  owns  them 
merely  to  boast  about  them.  The  wealthy  collector  who 
can  himself  enjoy  his  books,  and  he  who  sooner  or  later 
makes  his  books  available  for  others — whether  the  circle 
be  large  or  small — these  have  never  aroused  any  reason- 
able man’s  wrath. 


Now,  whether  I long  for  “the  books  which  never  can 
be  mine,”  or  am  sunk  in  indifference  toward  and  igno- 
rance about  incunables  and  Elzevirs  (which,  as  Andrew 
Lang  says,  are  always  regarded  by  novelists  as  the  great 
prize  of  the  collector)  there  is  some  form  of  book-hunting 
open  to  me,  no  matter  how  slight  my  learning  nor  how 
slender  my  pocket-book.  Follow  your  fancy!  Dr.  Frank 
O’Brien’s  was  for  Beadle’s  Dime  Novels,  and  he  found 
himself  the  owner  of  a collection,  interesting  in  itself, 
and,  incidentally,  worth  many  dollars.  Mr.  Franklin  P. 
Adams  writes  that  he  has  a collection  of  “bad  poetry,” 
which  must  be  highly  amusing,  and  moreover  (to  twang 
the  financial  string  again)  must  have  considerable  value, 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  CURIOUS  BOOKS,  II  91 

if  there  are  included  the  works  of  Mrs.  Julia  A.  Moore, 
the  Sweet  Singer  of  Michigan. 

Rearranging  and  rummaging  in  my  book-case,  not  long 
ago,  I assembled  and  gathered  together  upon  one  shelf 
a dozen  or  fifteen  books  which  have  been  coming  into 
my  possession,  one  or  two  at  a time,  for  the  past  three 
or  four  years.  A friend  of  mine  thought  that  he  could 
do  no  better  for  my  moral  and  spiritual  benefit,  than  to 
send  them  to  me.  He  seems  to  have  believed  that  I was 
in  need  of  that  special  kind  of  sacred  counsel  which  was 
imparted  to  the  young  in  the  first  half  of  the  Nineteenth 
Century.  They  make  a fine  show  on  my  shelf,  now  that 
I have  them  all  together.  Some  of  them  have  stamped 
leather  or  cloth  bindings  like  the  cases  which  used  to 
enclose  daguerreotypes, — the  kind  with  the  little  brass 
hasp,  and  the  red  plush  interior.  Some  of  them,  and  this 
is  appropriate  to  their  contents,  look  like  the  ornamenta- 
tion on  a very  swagger  coffin.  Here  is  “The  Youth’s 
Keepsake  for  1846:  A Christmas  and  New  Year’s  Gift 
for  Young  People.”  The  title-page  is  adorned  with  this 
rhyme: 

“Take  it — ’tis  a gift  of  love, — 

That  seeks  thy  good  alone ; 

Keep  it  for  the  giver’s  sake, 

And  read  it  for  thine  own.” 

Among  the  others  are: 

The  Girl’s  Week-Day  Book.  Published  by  The  London  Re- 
ligious Tract  Society.  New  York,  1837. 

Sermons  to  Young  Women.  By  James  Fordyce,  D.D.  Bos- 
ton, 1796. 

Evenings’  Entertainments,  or.  The  Country  Visit.  Embel- 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


92 

lished  with  Fourteen  Engravings.  Prepared  for  the  Presby- 
terian Board  of  Publication.  Philadelphia,  1844. 

An  Analytical  and  Practical  Grammar  of  the  English  Lan- 
guage. By  Rev.  Peter  Bullions,  D.D.,  Late  Professor  of  Lan- 
guages in  the  Albany  Academy.  New  York,  1853. 

Two  Short  Catechisms,  Mutually  Connected.  By  John 
Brown,  Minister  of  the  Gospel  at  Haddington,  1793. 

The  Jewel,  or  Token  of  Friendship.  1837. 

The  Ladies’  Lexicon,  and  Parlour  Companion.  By  William 
Grimshaw.  Philadelphia,  1835. 

The  Pet  Album.  (For  autographs.) 

Woman’s  Worth;  or  Hints  to  Raise  the  Female  Character. 
New  York,  1854. 

The  Little  Orator,  or  Primary  School  Speaker.  By  Charles 
Northend,  A.M.  New  York,  i860. 

The  Hare-Bell;  a Token  of  Friendship.  Edited  by  Rev. 
C.  W.  Everest.  “This  little  flower,  that  loves  the  lea.  May 
well  my  simple  emblem  be.”  Hartford,  1844. 

I keep  the  Rev.  Peter  Bullions’s  grammar  in  no  spirit 
of  derision.  His  name  inspires  awe,  but  his  knowledge 
arouses  my  admiration  and  envy.  Also,  I observe  that 
this  was  the  twenty-third  edition  of  his  book.  On  the 
title-page  of  “The  Girl’s  Week-Day  Book”  is  traced  in 
faint  penciling  the  words  ‘'Mon  Cher  Julie”  “The  Pet 
Album”  is  mostly  blank  leaves, — rose  colored  or  pale 
blue,  or  lemon,  with  a few  engravings,  “The  Dead  Bird,” 
or  “The  Lost  One  Found.”  On  one  of  the  rose  pages  is 
written : 

Way  over  here. 

And  out  of  sight, 

I write  my  name, 

Just  out  of  spite. 

Your  loving 

Cousin  Lizzie. 

Orange, 

November  28,  ’73. 


T 


.r*„T 

* Ulttt 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  CURIOUS  BOOKS,  II  93 

This  jeu  d' esprit  impressed  somebody  named  Annie  so 
favorably  that  she  repeated  it  on  a blue  page,  on  Sep- 
tember 9,  1876,  and  even  did  it  still  again,  two  days 
later,  on  the  next  leaf, — ruling  her  lines  carefully  with 
pencil. 

“The  Hare-Bell”  is  the  smallest  and  most  chaste  of 
them  all.  The  gilded  urn  upon  the  cover,  and  the  tiny 
mincing  pages  suggest  pet  lambs  and  pantalettes,  forget- 
me-nots  and  maidenly  reserve.  The  editor,  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Everest,  indulges  his  taste  in  an  article  from  his  own  pen, 
called  “The  Old  Man’s  Grave,”  which  begins:  “Buried 
in  these  painful  reflections,  I wandered  on  . . .”  He 
soon  comes  to  a cemetery,  and  says,  what  I can  easily 
believe:  “A  churchyard  seldom  woos  me  in  vain.” 
Soon  he  is  among  the  tombs,  having  a jolly  good  time 
of  it,  full  of  gloomy  moral izings,  which  he  desires  to 
impart  to  his  young  readers.  The  frontispiece  shows 
him,  clad  in  a manner  which  would  be  considered  de- 
pressing in  an  undertaker,  and  licking  his  chops  over 
a coming  burial  party.  “Soon  the  funeral  procession 
appeared  in  sight,  with  slow  and  measured  tread.  I 
leaned  against  a tombstone  and  waited  its  approach.” 

These  were  the  books  which  you  were  supposed  to  give 
to  a girl  on  her  seventeenth  birthday. 

“The  Little  Orator”  contains  poems  which  I had  al- 
ways believed  to  be  more  or  less  mythical,  like  “I’ll  Never 
Use  Tobacco” — 

I’ll  never  use  tobacco,  no, 

It  is  a filthy  weed: 

I’ll  never  put  it  in  my  mouth, 

Said  little  Robert  Reid. 


94 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


Why,  there  was  idle  Jerry  Jones, 

As  dirty  as  a pig. 

Who  smoked  when  only  ten  years  old, 

And  thought  it  made  him  big. 

and  the  one  about  the  robin  who  sang  the  “Temperance 
Song” — 

Teetotal — O,  that’s  the  first  word  of  my  lay: 

And  then  don’t  you  see  how  I twitter  away? 

The  Presbyteriart  “Evenings’  Entertainments”  tells 
about  James  and  Thomas  Jones,  who  as  a reward  for 
their  obedience  and  diligence,  were  permitted  to  spend 
their  summer  holidays  with  their  favorite  Uncle  John. 
Each  evening  they  would  gather  on  the  veranda,  where 
their  uncle  would  deliver  a twenty-page  discourse  upon 
the  intelligence  of  ants,  or  the  domestic  virtues  of  the 
giraffe.  Finally,  on  Sunday  night  they  converse  about 
keeping  the  Sabbath.  Thomas  relates  an  anecdote  of 
his  friend,  Philip  Oswald,  who  went  sailing  upon  the 
Sabbath,  and  was  drowned  for  his  pains,  while  good 
Uncle  John  caps  this  by  relating  the  untimely  death  of 
Philip’s  father,  who,  he  is  happy  to  say,  died  in  a fever, 
because  of  his  failure  to  observe  the  Sabbath.  In  fact  the 
book  is  like  the  young  lady’s  recitation  in  “Tom  Sawyer” 
which  wound  up  with  “a  sermon  so  destructive  of  all 
hope  to  non-Presbyterians  that  it  took  first  prize.” 

Uplifting  the  youthful  character,  particularly  the 
female  character,  which  seems  to  be  the  conspicuous 
theme  of  this  little  collection,  was  assuredly  the  chief 
concern  of  the  righteous  authors  of  the  1830’s  and  1840’s. 
Our  grandmothers  seem  to  have  been  docile  girls!  Did 


r — 

- s 


Uk.'  iidirntl  irmcctoimi  In  • w|l|> 

•low  Mid  hW4*uix*«l  livtid.'  I aK'Uiist  n UHitb-tiuur. 

MiJ  waltcvl  lu  Q|»|»ro«iclt."  « 


L 


Jolly  Reading  for  Girls 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  CURIOUS  BOOKS,  II  95 

they  never  revolt  and  wish  for  a less  insistent  harping 
upon  female  piety  and  meekness?  Was  there  any  relief 
for  them  if  they  did?  It  may  be  that  there  was:  the 
' writer  of  “Woman’s  Worth,”  hints  darkly  about  “books 
of  an  opposite  tendency,  which,  alas!  are  too  much  in 
vogue  at  the  present  day.  ...”  There  are  works  “of  an 
infidel  character  . . .”  and  those  “of  an  immoral”  de- 
scription. But  he  does  not  give  their  titles.  This  collec- 
tion contains  enough  pious  advice  to  make  a school  full 
of  flappers  today  go  into  “shrieks  of  laughter,”  and  then 
return  to  read  books  of  a description  which  would  make 
the  hair  of  James  Fordyce,  D.D.,  the  Rev.  Peter  Bul- 
lions, and  the  Rev.  C.  W.  Everest  curl  with  anguish. 

Yet,  I do  not  know.  If  the  writers  of  that  day,  in  their 
picture  of  model  maidenhood,  as  they  would  have  it, 
were  no  nearer  the  truth  than  the  novelists  of  1922  in 
showing  the  flapper,  as  they  wish  us  to  think  she  is,  we 
may  revise  our  views.  Look  at  Charley,  in  Miss  Edna 
Berber’s  “The  Girls.”  There  are  three  Charlottes  in  the 
book,  and  the  youngest,  who  represents  the  flapper — she 
is  seventeen  or  eighteen, — is  of  course  called  Charley. 
“Charley,”  says  the  book,  “speaks  freely  on  subjects  of 
which  great-aunt  Charlotte  has  never  even  heard. 
Words  obstetrical,  psychoanalytical,  political,  metaphys- 
ical, and  eugenic,  trip  from  Charley’s  tongue.” 

I wonder.  I wonder  if  Miss  Berber  really  knows  any 
flapper  who  is  like  that,  or  does  she  have  to  put  her  in  the 
book  because  she  had  become  a stock  character,  with 
which  to  flutter  the  provincial  pigeon-coops.  Mr.  Scott 
Fitzgerald  invented  her,  and  now  no  writer  of  novels  or 
short  stories  sits  down  to  his  typewriter  without  fishing 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


96 

up  one  or  two  from  the  depths  of  imagination.  Just  as 
no  artist  can  take  a stroll  in  the  forest,  along  the  side  of 
a crystal  brook,  without  happening  upon  a nymph  or 
naiad  about  to  plunge  in,  so  is  the  novelist  sure  to  know 
these  slim,  vivid  young  things — fine  athletes  (cf.  Charley 
in  “The  Girls”),  yet  rather  better  informed  in  current 
literature  and  science  than  a university  instructor.  And 
all  at  seventeen  or  eighteen ! 

Actually,  the  flapper  of  today  could  not  even  pro- 
nounce all  those  jaw-crackers  in  Miss  Ferber’s  second 
sentence.  She  is  about  as  apt  to  turn  red  and  uncomfort- 
able at  “words  obstetrical”  as  her  mother  was  at  her  age. 
She  knows  that  psychoanalysis  is  something  about  dreams. 
She  is  stumped  about  politics  if  you  are  mean  enough  to 
ask  her  suddenly  who  is  Speaker  of  the  House,  or  how 
Senators  are  elected.  Metaphysics  is — er — oh,  I think  we 
take  that  up  next  semester.  And  eugenics  means  better 
babies — no  it  doesn’t,  it’s  purifying  the  milk  supply,  or 
else  vaccination  for  typhoid,  she’s  not  sure  which.  With 
all  respect  to  Miss  Ferber’s  novel,  I think  that  these 
wonderful  flappers  who  haunt  the  fiction  of  the  period 
of  1922  are  going  to  be  as  grotesque  to  us  in  1950  as  the 
profound  heroine  of  “St.  Elmo,”  who  at  the  age  of  sixteen 
discussed  Stoic  philosophy  wdth  the  magnificent  hero,  or 
as  the  “dear,  delightful,  bouncing  girls”  who  never 
flinched  from  conversing  about  the  subtleties  of  astro- 
physics and  Unitarianism,  the  while  they  prepared  hot 
chocolate  for  John  Buncle. 

And  as  for  her  rattling  game  of  tennis  (Charley  “packed 
a mean,  back-handed  wallop”)  there  is  invariably  a cool 
woman  of  thirty-five  in  the  same  club  who  can  make  a 


The  Fate  of  Sabbath-Breakers 


rr 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  CURIOUS  BOOKS,  II  97 

X 

monkey  out  of  her  for  three  straight  sets.  Even  her  short 
skirts  were  old  stuff.  Take  down  your  “Martian”  by 
George  Du  Maurier,  and  look  (page  139)  at  his  picture 
of  “Three  Little  Maids  from  School  in  1853.” 

States  of  mind  cannot  be  dated.  Not  many  months 
ago  I read  a speech  by  an  English  bishop  about  the  man- 
ners of  today.  He  said  that  he  tried  not  to  be  an  old- 
fashioned  parent,  and  yet  when  his  daughter  said  to  him, 
“I  say.  Old  Egg,  got  any  cigarettes'?”  he  thought  things 
had  gone  rather  far.  Yet  at  the  same  time,  I doubt  not, 
daughters  could  be  found  who  spoke  to  their  fathers  in  a 
style  which  would  be  approved  by  Dr.  James  Fordyce, 
whose  “Sermons  to  Young  Women”  was  published — my 
edition  at  least — in  1796. 

To  show  that  old-fashioned  manners  have  not  alto- 
gether decayed,  let  me  quote  from  a guide  to  the  art  of 
correspondence  which  I read  with  some  attention  two 
or  three  years  ago.  Its  date  was  about  1912  and  the 
dates  of  the  letters,  a few  of  which  I copied,  show  that 
the  author  writes  practically  within  our  own  time.  Here, 
for  example,  is  his  model  for  that  most  interesting  of  all 
letters — “From  a gentleman  to  a lady  offering  her  his 
hand” : 

Fairbury,  III.,  May  6,  1899. 

My  Dear  Miss  Beane — It  is  now  nearly  a year  and  a 
half  since  I first  had  the  great  pleasure  of  being  received 
at  your  home  as  a friend.  During  the  greater  part  of  that 
time  there  has  been  but  one  attraction,  one  strong  hope, 
and  that  is  your  own  personal  attraction  and  the  desire  of 
winning  your  favor.  Have  I been  successful?  Has  the 
deep  faithful  love  that  I felt  for  you  met  any  response  in 
your  heart?  I feel  that  my  future  happiness  depends  upon 
your  answer.  It  is  not  the  fleeting  fancy  of  an  hour,  but 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


98 

the  true  abiding  love  that  is  founded  upon  respect  and 
esteem,  which  has  been  for  months  my  dearest  life  dream. 

Your  own  maidenly  dignity  has  kept  your  heart  so 
securely  hidden  that  I scarcely  venture  to  hope  I have  a 
place  there.  I feel  that  I cannot  endure  suspense  any 
longer,  so  write  to  win  or  lose  all. 

If  you  will  be  my  wife,  it  will  be  my  pride  to  shield 
you  from  all  sorrow  and  give  you  all  the  happiness  that  a 
tender  and  loving  husband  can  bestow  upon  the  one  he 
loves. 

Hoping  to  hear  from  you  soon,  I am. 

Devotedly  yours, 

C.  H.  Rumley. 

Miss  Alice  Beane,  Loda,  111. 

The  gentle  Alice  kept  Mr.  Rumley  on  pins  and  needles 
for  four  days,  and  then  from  her  maiden  seclusion  in 
Loda,  111.,  sent  him  a wild  outburst  of  passion,  which  the 
author  of  the  book  calls  a “Favorable  reply  to  preceding 
letter.”  Here  it  is: 

Loda,  III.,  May  10,  1899. 

My  Dear  Mr.  Rumley — Your  kind  and  manly  letter 
surprises  me  of  the  fact  that  what  I believed  to  be  only  a 
friendship  consists  of  a stronger  feeling.  I see  it  would  be 
a pain  to  me  to  lose  your  visits  and  your  presence,  and  I 
am  sure  that  such  a love  as  you  promise  your  wife  would 
make  me  very  happy.  You  see  I answer  you  frankly,  deem- 
ing it  wrong  to  trifle  with  such  affection  as  you  offer  me. 

I have  shown  your  letter  to  my  parents  and  they  say 
they  will  be  pleased  to  have  you  visit  us  at  your  earliest 
convenience.  Believe  me  to  be. 

Yours  most  affectionately, 

Alice  Beane. 

Mr.  C.  H.  Rumley,  Fairbury,  111. 

In  order,  however,  that  no  maiden  should  be  trapped 
into  unfortunate  marriages  (or  alliances,  as  the  author 


^ THE  SEARCH  FOR  CURIOUS  BOOKS,  II  99 

would  probably  prefer  to  say),  the  book  also  gives  the 
form  for  an  “unfavorable  reply  to  preceding  letter.” 
The  author  did  not  intend  that  the  experiencce  should  be 
repeated  of  the  American  in  France  who  was  run  away 
with  by  a horse,  merely  because  he  did  not  know  the 
French  for  “Whoa!”  Miss  Beane  is  thoughtfully  pro- 
vided with  a declination,  couched  in  the  most  elegant 
phrases.  I will  omit  it  out  of  regard  for  the  amorous 
Mr.  C.  H.  Rumley  (think  of  a hero  known  only  as 
“C.  H.”!)  and  let  his  romance  have  a happy  ending. 

Upon  the  lover  in  the  next  drama,  we  need  have  no 
such  mercy.  There  is  something  about  his  letter  which 
makes  mt  feel  that  he  is  planning  by  a second  marriage 
to  defraud  his  rightful  heirs — the  reference  to  his  need  of 
a “kindred  spirit”  is,  I think,  a sly  dig  at  somebody.  Be- 
sides, what  can  be  said  of  a man  who  plans  to  ask  a lady 
to  forsake  a place  so  beautifully  named  as  Bellefontaine 
(even  though  local  pronunciation  degrades  it  into  “Bell 
Fount’n”)  in  order  to  dwell  in  Wapakoneta?  Finally, 
there  is  more  than  a suspicion  that  the  recipient  of  the 
proposal  is  well  off — her  very  name  suggests  not  only 
ample  physical  proportions  but  a comfortable  bank  ac- 
count. Alfred  is  a giddy  old  rascal,  and  a fortune  hunter 
into  the  bargain.  Here  is  his  letter,  recommended  by  the 
author  as  the  correct  form,  “to  a widow  from  a widower” : 

W apakoneta,  0.,  Sept.  8,  1901. 

My  Dear  Madam — I take  this  opportunity  to  lay  open 
to  you  the  present  state  of  my  feelings,  having  been  so 
convinced  of  your  good  sense,  and  amiable  disposition,  that 
I feel  assured  that  you  will  deal  candidly  with  me  in  your 
reply.  Like  yourself,  I have  been  deprived  of  the  partner 
of  my  earlier  life,  and  as  I approach  the  middle  state  of 


100 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


existence,  I feel  more  and  more  the  want  of  some  kindred 
spirit  to  share  with  me  whatever  years  are  reserved  to  me 
by  Providence. 

My  fortune  is  such  as  to  enable  me  to  support  a lady  in 
the  manner  which  I feel  to  be  due  to  your  accomplishments 
and  position.  I sincerely  hope  you  will  think  carefully  over 
my  proposal.  If  you  can  make  up  your  mind  to  share  my 
fortune,  I trust  that  no  efforts  will  be  wanting  on  my  part 
to  assure  you  of  the  happiness  you  so  well  deserve. 

I need  scarcely  say  that  an  early  answer  on  the  matter  so 
much  connected  with  my  future  happiness  will  be  a great 
favor  to 

Your  devoted  admirer, 

Alfred  Reinhardt. 

Mrs.  Martha  Caffey,  Bellefontaine,  O. 

There  is,  as  I intimated,  a favorable  reply  to  this  letter, 
signed  “Martha.”  But  it  does  not  ring  true.  Here  is  the 
genuine  one.  Note  the  stern  reserve  of  the  signature,  not 
only  the  full  name,  but  “Mrs.”  besides ! Alfred  is  plainly 
told  to  keep  his  distance.  Bellefontaine  will  see  him  no 
more,  that  is  certain. 

“Unfavorable  reply  to  preceding  letter” : 

Bellefontaine,  0.,  Sept,  lo,  1901. 

Dear  Sir — You  give  me  credit  for  a discernment  I do  not 
possess,  for  I declare  to  you  I never  suspected  that  there  was 
anything  beyond  friendship  in  the  sentiments  you  enter- 
tained toward  me.  I am  sorry  to  find  it  otherwise,  because 
it  is  out  of  my  power  to  answer  your  question  in  the  affirma- 
tive. I esteem  you,  but  there  I must  pause.  My  heart  is 
untouched.  The  probability  is  that  I shall  always  remain  a 
widow. 

Wishing  you  with  all  my  heart  a more  favorable  re- 
sponse from  some  worthier  object,  I continue 

Your  sincere  friend, 

Mrs.  Martha  Caffey. 

Mr.  Alfred  Reinhardt,  Wapakoneta,  O. 


I 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  CURIOUS  BOOKS,  II  loi 

The  book  has  many  other  charming  and  useful  models. 
Especially  to  be  recommended  is  one  “From  a Gentleman 
Proposing  the  Day  of  Nuptials.”  There  is  a reply  to  it, 
from  his  prospective  “life’s  partner.”  Another,  in  a minor 
key,  is  “From  a Lady  Confessing  a Change  of  Feelings.” 
There  is  also  a brief  note  “To  a Lady  Complaining  of 
Coldness”  (doubtless  from  the  janitor  of  her  apartment 
house),  while  the  “Letter  to  an  Entire  Stranger  Seen  at 
Church,”  and  the  “Reply”  thereto  are  the  central  jewels 
of  the  whole  cluster.  This  is  a convenient  model,  and 
the  frigid  chastity  of  the  “Entire  Stranger’s”  reply  makes 
Miss  Felicia  Hemans  seem  like  burning  Sappho  by  com- 
parison. 

The  end  is  in  gloom.  Here  is  the  correct  letter  to 
be  sent  “From  a Gentleman  to  a Lady  on  Rejection  of 
his  Suit.”  Why  the  author  has  ironically  adopted  the 
name  of  Dr.  Weir  Mitchell’s  hero  is  hard  to  say.  It 
should  be  observed  that  gentlemen  suffering  with  rejection 
of  the  suit  are  not  even  allowed  to  use  the  formal  and 
customary  “Dear”  or  “My  Dear”  to  precede  the  rejector’s 
name.  “Miss  Murney”  (a  name  doubtless  selected  for 
its  hollow  and  dismal  sound)  is  to  be  used  in  all  its 
brevity.  However  this  may  be  but  a sign  of  misery  from 
one  who  is  an  isolated  lonely  wanderer  in  Harrisburg,  Pa. 
The  sad  epistle  follows : 

Harrisburg,  Pa.,  Aug.  5,  190 1. 

Miss  Murney — From  the  highest  pinnacles  of  hope  I 
have  been  sunk  to  the  lowest  depths  of  despair.  Your  rejec- 
tion to  my  love  has  filled  me  with  misery  and  wretchedness. 

I now  feel  an  isolated  lonely  wanderer  on  the  face  of  the 
earth,  without  one  friendly  ray  of  light  to  guide  my  way. 


102 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


Still,  whatever  my  fate  or  wherever  I am,  my  one  desire  will 
be  that  you  may  be  as  happy  as  I have  been  made  wretched. 
From  your  admirer,  though  miserable, 

Hugh  Wynne. 

Miss  Alberta  Murney,  Reading,  Pa. 


The  mock-refinement  of  the  uncultivated,  and  the 
affected  roughness  of  the  over-cultured  produce  strange 
effects  in  literature.  It  is  not  the  New  England  poets 
who  occasionally  lapse  into  effeminacy  of  expression, 
but  Walt  Whitman.  The  big  prize-fighter  and  the  heroes 
of  professional  baseball  turn  up  missing  when  the  coun- 
try goes  to  war,  while  the  great  prizes  for  gallantry  go  to 
a deacon  of  the  church  and  to  a studious,  near-sighted 
lawyer.  The  “strong  stuff”  which  has  so  occupied  the 
writers  of  poetry  and  the  drama  for  the  last  few  years — 
is  it  loved  by  the  people,  or  by  a few  under-nourished 
devotees?  A teacher  who  had  a small  collection  of  books 
in  her  class  room  was  surprised  to  see,  one  day,  the  tall 
and  ungainly  father  of  one  of  the  pupils.  He  came  in, 
said  that  he  liked  to  read,  and  that  he  wished  he 
might  sit  down  and  read  for  an  hour  or  so.  The  pupils 
had  gone,  and  there  were  various  other  persons  in  the 
room,  which  was  sometimes  used  in  place  of  a reading 
room.  The  man  said  that  he  liked  “poetry,”  and  so  the 
teacher  knew  exactly  what  to  give  him.  He  had  been, 
all  his  life,  a cattle-man  and  cow-boy  on  the  great  plains. 
The  teacher  had  learned,  from  the  critics  and  the  literary 
reviews,  what  these  great,  strong  virile  men  preferred, 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  CURIOUS  BOOKS,  II  103 

so,  not  finding  any  of  Carl  Sandburg’s  poems,  she  gave 
him  a volume  of  Whitman,  and  turned  to  the  “Song  of 
the  Broad-Axe.” 

He  did  not  seem  to  make  much  progress  with  it,  and 
presently  she  saw  him  shuffling  with  the  other  books. 
Passing  near  him,  as  he  sat  reading,  ten  minutes  later, 
she  noticed  that  he  had  a copy  of  Tennyson.  His  head 
was  bent  low  over  the  table,  and  he  was  perusing,  appar- 
ently with  the  utmost  delight,  this: 

Airy,  fairy  Lilian, 

Flitting  fairy  Lilian, 

When  I ask  her  if  she  love  me, 

Claps  her  tiny  hands  above  me. 

Laughing  all  she  can ; 

She’ll  not  tell  me  if  she  love  me, 

Cruel  little  Lilian. 


There  is  a certain  amount  of  pose  in  books  about  the 
sea,  and  in  comments  about  them.  A clever  writer  goes 
down  to  the  wharf  and  smells  tar  or  indigo  or  tapioca, 
or  whatever  it  is  that  any  good  reporter  on  an  assignment 
can  always  smell  to  please  his  editor,  and  comes  back 
stuffed  full  of  more  romance  than  he  or  anybody  else 
would  experience  in  fourteen  trips  around  the  world. 
Such  is  literature.  That  the  sailor-man  with  a seeing  eye 
does  behold  signs  and  wonders  I have  no  manner  of  doubt. 
Mr.  Frank  Bullen  saw  an  extraordinary  spectacle — a fight 
between  an  octopus  and  a whale — in  the  middle  of  a 
moonlit  night.  He  ran  below  to  tell  the  captain,  so  that 


J 


104  BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 

that  mariner  might  enjoy  it  too.  But  he  was  rewarded 
by  having  a boot  thrown  at  his  head.  I have  talked  with 
sailors  and  sea-captains  who  have  had  marvellous  experi- 
ences— one  of  them  had  been  in  a collision  on  a calm  sea 
in  the  Indian  ocean,  and  had  also  been  captured  by  the 
Alabama.  And  with  others  who  could,  for  the  life  of 
them,  after  thirty  years  at  sea,  remember  nothing 
more  entrancing  to  discuss  than  the  comparative 
prices  of  “corned  shoulder”  in  Singapore,  Colon,  and 
Halifax. 

In  Captain  Jacob  Trent,  master  of  the  brig  Flying 
Scud,  you  have  a picture  of  a sea-captain.  Stevenson  has 
drawn  it  in  “The  Wrecker,”  that  first-rate  novel  of  the 
sea,  of  which  three-fourths  of  the  action  is  on  land. 
Trent  opened  a bottle  of  Cape  wine  for  his  guests  and 
* discoursed  of  the  one  thing  in  his  life  which  gave  him 
pride : the  pawn-shop,  which,  under  the  name  of  “bank,” 
he  had  kept  in  Cardiff.  “He  had  been  forty  years  at  sea, 
had  five  times  suffered  shipwreck,  was  once  n<ine  months 
the  prisoner  of  a pepper  rajah,  and  had  seen  service  under 
fire  in  Chinese  rivers;  but  the  only  thing  he  cared  to 
talk  about,  the  only  thing  of  which  he  was  vain  or  with 
which  he  thought  it  possible  to  interest  a stranger,  was 
his  career  as  a money-lender  in  the  slums  of  a sea-port 
town.” 

Almost  always  the  romance  of  the  sea  ends  at  the 
water’s  edge.  It  is  not  what  the  sea  contains,  nor  what 
it  bears  upon  its  surface,  nor  what  takes  place  in  ships 
upon  it,  that  constitutes  romance.  It  is  what  it  causes 
men  to  imagine;  the  thoughts  of  what  may  lie  below 
the  blue  rim.  That  is  why  W.  W.  Jacobs’  stories  are  so 


I 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  CURIOUS  BOOKS,  II  105 

good — they  are  coast-wise  tales,  or  else  yarns  of  men  on 
shore  talking  about  the  sea.  That  is  why  Miss  Fox- 
Smith’s  poems  are  excellent — she  goes  down  to  the  docks 
and  dreams  dreams  evoked  by  the  names  of  the  ships,  and 
lets  her  fancy  create  the  adventures  they  never  have  had. 
What  are  the  best  sea-stories?  Men  fight  upon  this 
theme  until  their  eyelids  will  no  longer  wag.  A year  or 
two  ago  a great  number  of  people  were  asked  to  write 
out  their  preferences  and  it  finally  worked  down  to  me. 
I printed  the  names  of  my  ten  favorites,  somewhere  or 
other,  and  a man  wrote  in  all  the  way  from  Hong  Kong 
to  say  that  (a)  he  had  never  heard  of  me  in  his  life;  and 
(b)  that  certain  inclusions  and  omissions  in  my  list 
gave  him  great  anguish.  And  yet  my  list  was  not  a bad 
one  at  all,  although  it  maddened  the  man  from  Hong 
Kong. 

And  there  is  certainly  good  sea-adventuring.  But  not 
in  the  books  which  dwell  long  upon  descriptions  of  storms 
and  other  kinds  of  weather.  Mark  Twain  set  an  admir- 
able precedent  when  he  wrote  at  the  beginning  of  one 
of  his  novels:  “There  is  no  weather  in  this  book.”  One 
paragraph  in  “The  Wrecker,”  one  which  it  seems  to  me 
should  attract  to  the  novel  anyone  who  has  never  enjoyed 
that  story,  is  this: 

It  is  perhaps  because  I know  the  sequel,  but  I can  never 
think  upon  this  voyage  without  a profound  sense  of  pity 
and  mystery;  of  the  ship  (once  the  whim  of  a rich  black- 
guard) faring  with  her  battered  fineries  and  upon  her  homely 
errand,  across  the  plains  of  ocean,  and  past  the  gorgeous 
scenery  of  dawn  and  sunset;  and  the  ship’s  company,  so 
strangely  assembled,  so  Britishly  chuckle-headed,  filling  their 
days  with  chaff  in  place  of  conversation ; no  human  book  on 


io6 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


board  with  them  except  Hadden’s  Buckle,  and  not  a creature 
fit  either  to  read  or  to  understand  it ; and  the  one  mark  of 
any  civilized  interest  being  when  Carthew  filled  in  his  spare 
hours  with  the  pencil  and  the  brush : the  whole  unconscious 
crew  of  them  posting  in  the  meantime  toward  so  tragic  a 
disaster. 


The  guides  to  manners  and  to  conversation  have  led 
me  aside  from  the  discussion  of  curious  books.  But  in 
that  category  must  certainly  be  included  the  missing  and 
disappearing  books,  the  books  which  you  have  read,  but 
are  now  long  lost,  as  well  as  the  books  which  ought  to 
have  been  written,  but  have  somehow  been  neglected. 
There  is  an  alluring  description  of  one  of  the  disappear- 
ing books  in  Mr.  Maurice  Baring’s  “The  Puppet  Show 
of  Memory” — an  informal  autobiography  well  worth 
reading  on  its  own  account.  Mr.  Baring  read  this  book 
when  a boy;  he  remembers  where  he  read  it,  and  how  he 
got  it,  he  recalls  the  picture  on  the  cover,  and  that  the 
book  “was  called  ‘The  Siege  of  Castle  Something’  and  it 
was  by — that  is  the  question — who  was  it  by*?”  It  de- 
scribes the  adventures  of  a peculiar  family  who  were 
besieged  by  their  creditors;  the  humorous  devices  of  the 
creditors  to  get  at  the  family,  and  the  extremely  romantic 
and  ingenious  devices  of  the  family  to  avoid  being  sur- 
prised. Once  Mr.  Baring  met  a man  who  was  reported 
to  have  read  everything;  he  described  his  lost  book  and 
the  man — who  was  also  a great  traveller — instantly  de- 
clared that  he,  too,  had  read  and  enjoyed  the  book.  But 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  CURIOUS  BOOKS,  II  107 

neither  could  he  remember  the  author,  nor  give  any  aid 
in  tracking  the  book. 

One  of  the  most  popular  books  in  my  first  decade  was 
a bulky  pink  pamphlet,  the  advertising  catalogue  of  a 
certain  firm.  I wonder  if  it  is  still  published.  In  it  were 
set  forth  the  attractive  apparatuses  by  which  you  could 
make  yourself  beloved  in  any  gathering:  by  locking  firmly 
together  two  bashful  persons  (bachelor  and  spinster  pre- 
ferred) with  a gutta-percha  “finger-trap” ; by  presenting 
some  dignified  gentleman  with  a “trick  cigar,”  which 
would  “explode  with  a red  light,  killing  the  smoker  and 
amusing  the  spectators” ; by  distributing  whistles,  recom- 
mended as  “sending  the  girls  into  fits  and  driving  the 
old  folks  crazy”;  by  wearing  a boutonniere  which  might 
be  made  to  squirt  a thin  stream  of  some  deadly  fluid  into 
the  eye  of  anybody  who  came  near  it.  These  amiable 
tricks  were  supposed  to  provide  the  utmost  in  refined 
entertainment,  and  to  represent  a nice  taste  in  humor. 
The  pamphlet  which  offered  them  for  sale  was  adored 
by  all  my  contemporaries,  but  liable  to  confiscation  by 
parents  and  elders,  who  simply  did  not  know  a joke 
when  they  saw  one.  One  of  its  treasures  was  a “fire- 
eating outfit.”  We  used  to  look  at  that  and  dream  of 
the  day  when  we,  like  the  man  in  the  illustration,  might 
stand  clad  in  an  evening  suit,  our  faces  adorned  with  the 
invariable  moustache  and  imperial  of  the  true  fire-eater, 
and  puff  out  smoke  and  flames,  to  the  consternation  of 
groups  of  little  girls  and  boys  in  their  best  clothes.  I 
knew  one  boy  who  tried  it — and  he  is  still  alive. 

An  admirable  book,  which  seems  never  to  have  been 
written,  is  a volume  of  essays  on  outdoor  sports,  treated 


io8 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


strictly  from  the  view-point  of  the  amateur.  You  will 
say,  immediately,  that  there  are  many  such  books,  and 
many  such  essays.  But  it  is  not  really  so.  The  difficulty 
comes  over  the  definition  of  the  word  “amateur.”  The 
original  meaning  of  “lover”  has,  practically,  been  lost  for 
ages,  and  its  secondary  meaning  of  “non-professional” 
has  been  allowed  to  usurp  too  much  importance.  Except 
in  wrangles  among  colleges  the  distinction  between  the 
amateur  and  the  professional  is  of  little  interest  to  any- 
one. The  really  important  significance  of  the  word  lies 
in  its  connotation  of  lack  of  skill  in  this  or  that  game  or 
sport.  And  it  is  seldom  so  used — sincerely. 

Therein  lies  the  trouble.  There  is  no  end  of  books 
on  angling,  on  golf,  on  tennis,  all  purporting  to  be  by 
“An  Amateur.”  It  is  the  sheerest  affectation.  You  can- 
not read  one  of  them  for  half  an  hour  without  discovering 
that  this  self-styled  amateur,  this  gentleman  of  violet- 
like modesty,  is  a wizard  at  his  special  game.  Only  the 
fact  that  he  does  not  take  money  for  it  distinguishes  him 
from  the  out  and  out  professional.  And  what  do  you 
care  about  that  when  you  are  reading  his  book?  Indeed, 
there  would  be  less  exasperation  in  a book  by  a profes- 
sional. You  do  not  object  if  he  outdistances  you  hope- 
lessly, But  this  person  who  hypocritically  calls  himself 
an  amateur,  and  then  proves  inside  twenty-five  pages,  to 
have  performed  the  most  astonishing  feats — he  plunges 
you  into  a fit  of  depression  from  which  you  may  well  be 
hours  in  emerging. 

No;  our  book  of  athletic  essays  must  be  by  undoubted 
amateurs.  More  than  that,  they  must  belong  to  the  duffer 
class.  Here  again  is  a relative  term — let  it  be  under- 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  CURIOUS  BOOKS,  II  109 

stood  if  the  subject  is  golf,  that  they  shall  be  duffers 
not  only  in  the  presence  of  the  lords  of  the  game,  but 
duffers  anywhere,  duffers  amongst  the  humble  and  the 
lowly.  In  tennis,  it  is  better  that  they  should  never  get 
beyond  the  second,  or  perhaps  the  third,  round  of  a 
tournament.  The  yachtsman  whose  view  is  most  to  be 
desired  is  the  one  who  tends  the  sheet,  perhaps — never 
the  one  who  comes  to  the  wheel  in  a pinch.  And  so  on 
through  the  sports. 

From  these  men,  it  is  my  contention,  we  should  get 
new  and  refreshing  work.  They  know  the  full  joy  of  the 
game — and  the  full  sorrow — and  no  more.  Nothing  of 
the  mathematics  of  sport  has  corroded  their  souls — they 
do  not  bicker,  overmuch,  whether  they  took  six  or  seven 
strokes  at  the  fifth  hole,  but  are  content  to  cover  the 
tragedy  with  a decent  silence. 

Not  that  they  are  without  a respectable  desire  to  win, 
if  the  sport  is  one  involving  contest.  We  want  nothing 
mawkish  in  the  book.  Of  course,  they  hope  to  beat  their 
opponents.  But  this  desire  must  be  nicely  measured; 
winning  is  an  important  ingredient  in  their  pleasure,  but 
not  the  whole  of  it.  The  contest  is  something,  the  sur- 
roundings are  much.  The  man  to  whom  it  is  of  no 
importance  whether  the  tennis  court  is  in  the  midst  of 
green  meadows  or  between  brick  walls  in  a city,  and  the 
man  who  leaps  upon  the  court  with  an  iron  face  and 
wields  his  racquet  like  an  axe,  will  not  be  asked  to  con- 
tribute. 

Tennis,*  golf,  angling,  and  yachting — these  have  al- 

• Perhaps  the  essay  on  tennis  has  been  written,  and  that  on  swimming 
too:  in  Mr.  A.  S.  Pier’s  “The  Young  in  Heart.”  But  Mr.  Pier  is  not  a 
duffer  in  tennis;  I think  he  has  played  in  tournaments  with  the  great. 


no 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


ready  been  named  as  subjects  for  the  essays.  To  them 
should  be  added  riding,  motoring,  with  possibly  an  his- 
torical note  on  bicycling,  mountain-climbing,  plain 
walking,  camping — with  an  excursus  on  camp  cookery, 
canoeing,  and  swimming,  next  to  the  best  of  all.  (Ten- 
nis is  first.) 

One  section  might  be  devoted  to  croquet,  provided  that 
emphasis  was  placed  on  the  peculiarly  disagreeable  dispo- 
sitions of  all  persons  who  are  expert  in  that  game,  or 
who  even  tolerate  it. 

This  should  be  a soothing  book,  a book  for  summer 
days,  one  to  be  carried  in  a canoe,  and  read  on  quiet 
streams.  It  should  suggest  the  click  of  golf-balls,  the 
smell  of  spring  and  autumn  fires,  and  lengthening  shadows 
upon  the  court.  There  should  be  a little  of  the  heat  of 
contest  in  it,  but  almost  none  of  the  wrath.  The  swim- 
ming should  not  be  a mile  race  at  top  speed,  but  rather 
it  should  describe  floating  lazily  upon  one’s  back,  hung 
between  earth  and  sky,  watching  the  clouds,  surely  the 
position  in  which  man  shakes  off  more  of  the  bodily 
limitations — but  the  swimming  is  to  be  described  by 
someone  else. 


“Let  me  tell  you  a secret,”  said  Bunthome  to  Patience. 
“I  am  not  as  bilious  as  I look.  . . . There  is  more  in- 
nocent fun  within  me  than  a casual  spectator  would 
imagine.”  This  may  be  applied  to  the  book  of  informa- 
tion. There  is  a literary  critic  who  confesses  to  a weak- 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  CURIOUS  BOOKS,  II  in 

ness  for  Whitaker’s  Almanack,  and  another  who  admits 
that  if  he  once  pauses  for  a moment  over  the  Dictionary 
of  National  Biography,  he  does  not  return  to  earth  for 
hours.  There  is  even  a certain  amount  of  innocent  fun  in 
an  index.  Not  alone  the  deliberately  humorous  indexes 
— of  which  the  great  examples  are  in  “The  Biglow 
Papers,”  some  of  Holmes’s  works,  like  “The  Poet  at  the 
Breakfast  Table”,  and  in  Lewis  Carroll’s  “Sylvie  and 
Bruno.”  I mean  the  perfectly  honest,  sober  index,  like 
that  in  “The  Anatomy  of  Melancholy”  and  best  of  all  in 
Mr.  Wheatley’s  edition  of  Pepys’  Diary.  That  is  the 
king-pin  of  all  indexes.  One  man  appears  in  it  only  to 
be  described  as  “a  little  fuddled.”  Surely  it  is  an  awe- 
some thing,  and  one  almost  sufficient  to  make  us  resolve 
to  drink  no  more  strong  waters,  to  read  of  this  man, 
doubtless  a worthy  Christian,  of  long  life  and  good 
repute,  but  now,  three  centuries  after  he  has  gone  to  his 
rest,  we  can  know  absolutely  nothing  about  him,  except 
that  on  one  occasion  he  was  “a  little  fuddled” ! And 
here  are  the  entries  in  this  wondrous  index  under  the  head 
“Periwig.” 

Periwig,  Pepys  wears  one,  iii,  109,  305;  Pepys  puts  off  the 
wearing  of  one  for  a while,  iii,  248 ; one  bought  by  Pepys, 
iii,  303 ; he  buys  a case  for  it,  iii,  307 ; Pepys  so  altered 
by  it  that  the  Duke  of  York  did  not  know  him,  iii,  312; 
Pepys  has  a second  made  from  his  own  hair,  iii,  319,  320; 
he  sends  one  to  the  barber  to  be  cleansed  of  its  nits,  iv, 
178;  he  buys  two  more,  vi,  232;  Pepys  agrees  with  the 
barber  to  keep  his  in  order,  viii,  31  ; his,  set  on  fire,  viii, 
111 ; King  and  Duke  of  York  first  wear  periwigs,  iv,  40; 
danger  of  wearing  periwigs  during  the  Plague,  v,  60; 
Ladies  of  Honor  in,  v,  305;  periwig  shops,  iii,  109, 
295,  306;  vi,  397;  viii,  127. 


112 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


. All  the  members  of  the  tribe  of  “Who’s  WTio”  have 
furnished  entertainment  to  many.  They  took  their  cue 
from  the  English  annual,  which  has  celebrated  more 
than  seventy  birthdays,  and  gleams  from  its  shelf, 
fat,  red  and  prosperous,  with  its  thirty  thousand  biog- 
raphies. 

An  official  whose  last  name  is  Abbas  (his  others  are 
Kuli  Khan)  leads  the  procession,  which  winds  through 
thousands  of  pages  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Zwemer  who  thus 
has  the  honor  of  bringing  up  the  rearguard  in  both  this 
and  the  American  “Who’s  Who.”  I should  not  care  to 
be  Mr.  Zwemer  on  pay-day  (army  style)  in  Who’s  Who 
land.  The  most  modest  of  all  the  thirty  thousand  famous 
personages,  if  briefness  of  biography  is  any  test,  is  the 
Earl  of  Burlington  with  only  the  one  or  two  lines  of  print, 
which  he  furnishes  about  himself.  He  gives  neither  his 
academic  honors,  his  medals  nor  rewards.  He  is  silent 
as  to  his  clubs,  his  town  and  country  houses,  his  telephone 
and  motor-car  numbers.  Whether  he  was  mentioned  in 
despatches  in  the  South  African  War,  or  won  the  D.S.O. 
in  the  Great  War;  what  are  his  politics,  his  religion,  or 
what  the  name  of  his  heir,  the  reader  learns  not.  His 
recreations  (that  famous  point  of  interest  in  this  book) 
we  may  imagine,  since  the  noble  Earl  has  had  only  four 
birthdays. 

John  William  Rivallon  de  la  Poer  writes  himself 
down  as  Lord  le  Power  and  Coroghmore,  Count  of  the 
Papal  States,  but  admits  that  the  Barony  is  “under 
attaint  on  account  of  the  rebellion  of  1688.”  They  have 
long  memories,  they  feed  fat  their  ancient  grudges  in 
these  old  countries;  an  American  would  think  that  they 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  CURIOUS  BOOKS,  II  113 

might  let  by-gones  be  by-gones  and  give  Lord  le  Power 
his  Barony  again. 

The  recreations  and  amusements  of  the  English  Who’s 
Whosiers  are  always  pleasing.  There  is  the  usual  range. 
The  Hon.  and  Rev.  James  Black  Ronald  likes  “cycling, 
walking,  reading,  writing  and  smoking.”  Ah,  me,  I was  a 
pale,  young  curate  then!  But  Major  General  Sir  Archi- 
bald Cameron  MacDonald  is  the  very  pattern  of  a mod- 
ern Major  General — he  “goes  in  a great  deal  for  riding 
and  coursing  wolves.”  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw  still  says  that 
his  recreations  are  “anything  except  sport.”  For  exercise, 
however,  swimming,  walking,  and  public  speaking. 
Messrs.  H.  G.  Wells  and  G.  K.  Chestertdn  refuse  to  de- 
scribe their  recreations.  They  may  all  have  their  fame 
and  their  literary  prestige;  let  the  Hon.  and  Rev.  Mr. 
Ronald  pace  sedately  his  parish,  and  let  Major  General 
Sir  Archibald  gallop  after  his  Canadian  wolves — ^yes,  and 
ride  them,  if  he  will.  I would  not  exchange  with  any 
of  them.  I envy  not  Mr.  Shaw  his  royalties  nor  the 
Major  General  his  admirable  war  record.  My  hero  of 
the  whole  long  gallery  of  living  pictures  is  a shyer,  more 
reticent  figure.  I imagine,  although  I do  not  know,  that 
his  clothes  are  beautiful.  My  modest  ambition  would 
be  satisfied  if  I could  exchange  places  with  him — the 
Nawab  Bahadur  of  Murshedabad.  He  is,  as  he  says, 
“the  38th  in  descent  from  the  Prophet  of  Arabia.”  And 
his  recreations  he  describes  in  simple,  manly  fashion — 
“an  athlete,  keen  at  all  kinds  of  sports;  an  excellent 
horseman;  a brilliant  polo-player,  an  excellent  shot,  and 
an  A-one  billiard-player.” 


THE  BIRD 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE  BIRD 

He  was  a subject  of  controversy  as  soon  as  he  entered 
the  library.  The  sailor  who  brought  him  appeared 
at  my  office,  and  said : “I’ve  got  him  down  here,  but  they 
won’t  let  me  bring  him  in,  so  I’ve  checked  him.” 

This  gave  me  no  great  amount  of  information,  so  I 
sat  still  and  stared.  I was  not  sure  whether  a prisoner 
from  an  enemy  submarine  had  been  brought  for  my  in- 
spection, or  if  the  sailor  had  arrived  with  some  eccentric 
uncle  who  absolutely  refused  to  stop  smoking  his  pipe.* 
My  office  is  in  a rather  cosy  little  library  about  the 
size  of  a royal  palace.  In  that  never  correctly  quoted 
saying  of  Kipling,  it  is  asserted  there  are  three  great  doors 
in  the  world,  where,  if  you  stand  long  enough,  you  shall 
meet  anyone  you  wish.  These  are  the  head  of  the  Suez 
Canal,  Charing  Cross  Station,  and  the  Nyanza  Docks. 
In  the  days  when  the  sailor  paid  me  this  call,  we  had 
come  to  believe  that  there  was  another  place  to  be  added 
to  this  list:  the  corner  of  Forty-second  Street  and  Fifth 
Avenue.  Presidents  of  the  United  States  used  to  like  to 
wave  their  shiny  hats  and  review  parades  from  our  ter- 
race; while  inside  the  building  we  were  fairly  accustomed 
to  the  presence  of  Cardinals,  Princes,  and  Field  Marshals. 
One  of  my  colleagues,  who  was  asked  one  day  where  his 
small  son  had  gone,  replied  vaguely:  “I  don’t  know;  the 

• A slavish  follower,  perhaps,  of  Mr.  Christopher  Morley. 

117 


ii8 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


last  time  I saw  him  he  was  in  the  children’s  reading 
room,  talking  to  the  Queen  of  Belgium,” 

All  this  gave  the  guards  and  the  police  some  anxiety, 
and  produced  a little  spirit  of  formality  at  the  front  door. 
This  time  the  difficulty  centered  about  a youthful  West 
Indian  parrot,  about  ten  inches  tall  in  his  stocking  feet. 
He,  the  party  of  the  first  part  (hereinafter  referred  to 
as  Veter)  had  arrived — in  his  travelling  case — carried  by 
the  sailor  aforesaid.  The  sailor  was  the  commander  of 
U.S.S.  Kennebec,  just  in  port  after  a year  or  two  in  the 
waters  about  Hayti  and  Santo  Domingo,  and  as  I went 
with  him  down  to  the  front  door,  I thought  how 

I should  like  to  rise  and  go 
Where  the  golden  apples  grow — 

Where  beneath  another  sky 
Parrot  islands  anchored  lie. 

The  italics  are  mine.  The  officer  at  the  door  had  been 
about  to  admit  Peter  without  question.  Peter  was  se- 
curely confined,  the  sailor  wore  the  attractive  summer 
uniform  of  the  American  Navy,  set  off  tastefully  about 
the  shoulders  with  stripes  of  gold  braid — the  two  seemed 
entitled  to  a safe  conduct,  if  not  considerable  respect. 
But  another  guard  raised  the  point  whether  parrots  were 
allowed  in  the  library.  Peter  was  halted;  a copy  of  the 
rules  hunted  up.  Dogs,  it  seems,  are  expressly  forbidden. 
On  parrots  the  rules  are  silent.  Objections  seemed  to 
be  removed  and  the  party  again  started  upstairs  for  my 
office.  But  they  were  halted  once  more, 

“Look  here.  Rule  5 says : ‘Loud  and  unnecessary  con- 
versation is  forbidden  in  the  Reading  Rooms.’  Are  you 


THE  BIRD 


119 

prepared  to  guarantee  that  that  parrot  will  refrain  from 
loud  and  unnecessary  conversation?” 

No.  That  could  not  be  promised.  And  so  as  a 
measure  of  compromise,  Peter  was  checked  in  the  coat- 
room,  while  the  sailor  went  to  find  me.  I was  brought 
down  and  presented.  Peter  maintained  an  air  of  aloof- 
ness. Even  when  told  my  name,  and  that  he  was  thence- 
forth a member  of  my  family,  his  was  the  attitude  of 
W.  S.  Gilbert  when  informed  that  an  International  Ex- 
position was  to  be  held  in  Omaha.  He  received  the  news 
“with  a calmness  bordering  upon  complete  indifference.” 

The  ship’s  carpenter  who  had  made  Peter’s  travelling 
case  worked  with  durability  in  mind,  rather  than  esthetic 
charm.  He  had  sawn  out  and  nailed  together  some 
boards  which  were  stout  enough  to  detain  a particularly 
muscular  emu.  These  were  painted  battleship  gray,  and 
on  two  sides  of  the  box,  where  square  openings  had  been 
made,  wire  net,  ostrich-strong,  was  nailed.  I think  it  was 
anti-U-boat  net.  Inside,  on  a stout  perch,  sat  Peter.* 
There  was  a look  in  his  eye  which  made  me  think  of  him 
as  a confirmed  landsman,  who  had  been  tossing  about 
for  ten  days  at  sea,  had  finally  been  brought  ashore,  told 
that  this  was  North  America,  and  how  did  he  like  it? 

Many  months  have  gone  by  since  that  day,  and  I 
know  Peter’s  moods  and  whims,  his  facial  expressions 
and  his  language,  spoken  and  unspoken,  far  better  than 
I did  then.  I know  what  was  the  matter  with  him.  He 

* Mr.  Don  Marquis  introduces  a parrot  named  Peter  in  his  play,  “The 
Old  Soak,”  and  mentioned  him  earlier  in  The  Sun  Dial.  To  avoid  sus- 
picion of  plagiarism  I must  say  that  the  Peter  of  this  essay  was  named 
in  1919,  and  is  not,  like  Mr.  Marquis’s  Peter,  the  creation  of  genius.  He 
is  an  act  of  God,  and  liveth  today. 


120 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


had  been  on  Government  rations.  He  is  an  ex-service 
man,  and  I sympathize  with  him.  For  as  soon  as  we  got 
him  home,  and  took  him  out  of  the  box,  we  hunted  up  a 
banana  (which  we  fancied  might  remind  him  of  his  lost 
home  in  Santo  Domingo)  and  offered  him  a bit  of  it. 
Never  have  I seen  determination  and  complete  satisfac- 
tion expressed  so  promptly.  He  reached  out  for  it,  and 
took  it  in,  as  only  Mr.  Bryan  could  accept  a nomination 
for  the  Presidency.  He  seemed  to  say:  “Well,  you’ve 
been  a long  while  about  it,  but  here  it  is  at  last.” 

And,  holding  the  banana  in  one  hand,  balancing  him- 
self nicely  on  one  leg,  he  commenced  to  eat  it  with 
gratified  chuckles.  Once,  in  a restaurant,  I saw  Diamond 
Jim  Brady  eating  an  elaborate  dish,  which  the  chef  had 
spent  an  hour  preparing.  He  made  similar,  pleased, 
little  noises. 

The  Kennebec  brought  twenty-two  parrots  on  that  trip. 
When  the  crew  learned  that  the  ship  had  orders  for  home, 
they  asked  permission  to  bring  parrots  aboard.  Hitherto 
they  had  been  forbidden.  Twenty-four  hours  before  sail- 
ing, however,  the  prohibition  was  lifted,  and  parrot  per- 
mits were  issued.  The  boys  of  that  West  Indian  town 
were  notified  and  many  a parrot  home  had  cause  to  mourn 
a kidnapped  son  or  daughter.  The  captives  sat  on  deck, 
complained  about  the  food,  and  squawked  at  each  other. 
One,  desperate  about  his  abduction,  flew  into  the  air,  and 
was  reported  lost  at  sea.  The  others  arrived  without 
casualty. 

Peter’s  appearance  is  youthful ; his  colors  are  gay,  and 
might  be  considered  gaudy  if  they  were  not  so  well 
selected,  and  so  tastefully  arranged.  In  one  respect  only 


THE  BIRD 


121! 


does  his  origin  appear.  Those  antiquated  looking  feet, 
those  aged  claws,  seem  to  hark  back  to  a long  buried  past, 
and  keep  the  secrets  of  the  tomb  about  them,  as,  according 
to  Walter  Pater,  Mona  Lisa’s  smile  recalled  dim  cen- 
turies when  the  world  was  young.  By  his  decrepit  steps 
upon  those  old  claws,  you  are  reminded  of  his  ancestors 
of  long  ago,  of  his  forefathers  who  chattered  and  screamed 
in  the  courts  of  Montezuma,  who  perched  upon  the 
slim,  brown  fingers  of  queens  in  ancient  India;  who, 
sedately  mummified,  accompanied  the  Kings  of  Egypt  in 
their  graves. 

Otherwise  there  is  nothing  at  all  sepulchral  about 
him.  His  feathers,  as  the  light  strikes  them,  vary 
from  an  apple-green  to  the  deeper  shades  of  the  emerald 
and  the  peacock.  The  under  feathers  of  his  wings — 
when  he  spreads  them,  awfully,  in  flight — are  navy  blue. 
He  has  little  rose-colored  breeches,  like  a Zouave,  and 
when,  to  express  his  gratitude,  he  spreads  his  coat-tails 
fan-wise,  he  displays  a brilliant  patch  of  scarlet.  I know 
that  this  is  a sign  of  gratitude,  because  in  the  Tailor 
Bird’s  Song,  in  the  story  of  “Rikki  Tikki  Tavi,”  Darzee 
says: 

Give  him  the  thanks  of  the  birds, 

Bowing  with  tail-feathers  spread, 

Praise  him  in  nightingale  words — 

Nay,  I will  praise  him  instead  . . • 

When  he  turns  his  back  upon  me,  and  bends  his  head 
to  examine,  more  carefully,  his  cup  of  sunflower  seeds, 
he  looks  (except  for  the  green  color  of  his  coat)  exactly 
like  old  Deacon  Pettingill,  as  he  used  to  walk  of  a Sunday 
up  the  main  aisle  of  the  First  Unitarian  Church,  with  the 


122 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


offering.  But  when  he  ruffles  his  feathers,  draws  up  his 
shoulders  in  the  manner  of  Napoleon  the  Great,  shows 
me  in  profile  his  terrible  beak,  and  glares  at  some  distant 
object,  I am  forced  to  believe  that  he  has  seen,  as  I did 
once.  Saint  Gaudens’  majestic  American  eagle  upon  the 
ten  dollar  gold-piece,  and  is  doing  his  best  to  look  like 
that.  And  when,  in  less  war-like  moments,  he  snuggles 
down  in  my  lap,  and  chuckles  and  sniffles  and  whimpers 
and  croons,  while  I tickle  the  small  of  his  back,  it  seems 
to  me  that  he  has  modelled  himself  and  his  conduct  upon 
a fussy  Plymouth  Rock  hen  in  the  brooding  season. 

Never,  until  it  was  demonstrated,  would  I have  be- 
lieved that  a bird  of  Peter’s  intense  and  tropical  disposi- 
tion would  care  to  spend  the  evening — more  than  that, 
insist  upon  spending  the  evening,  lying  in  an  absurd 
position  in  my  lap,  asleep,  with  his  head  tucked  under 
my  coat.  Intimate  acquaintance  with  Peter  has  its  price; 
of  many  visitors  he  disapproves  altogether,  and  signifies 
this  by  biting  ?ne.  I have  shed  no  small  amount  of  blood 
in  learning  that  he  does  not  care  to  have  every  caller 
approach  too  near. 

There  is  the  usual  problem  of  how  much  he  under- 
stands of  what  is  being  said  in  his  presence.  One  stormy 
night  in  the  winter  we  were  reading  aloud  from  Cable’s 
“Strange  True  Stories  of  Louisiana” — something  about 
an  old  ghost-haunted  house  in  New  Orleans.  Peter  sat 
upon  the  top  of  his  cage,  giving  profound  attention,  and 
clasping  the  side  of  his  face  with  one  claw,  like  the  Dodo, 
in  “Alice.”  Suddenly,  the  storm  had  its  effect  upon  the 
wires  outside : the  electric  lights  flickered,  dimmed,  came 
up  again,  and  then  faded  into  complete  darkness. 


THE  BIRD 


123 


“Now,”  apparently  thought  Peter,  “is  my  time  to  give 
them  a thrill !”  And  just  before  the  room  became  entirely 
dark  he  uttered  a terrible  war-whoop,  spread  his  wings 
and  sailed  straight  at  me,  looking  as  large  and  terrific  as 
a condor  in  its  flight.  He  soared  over  my  head  and 
lighted,  not  upon  a pallid  bust  of  Pallas,  but  upon  a 
portrait  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe  which  hung  on  one  side  of 
a book-case.  There  was  a great  hurroosh,  a wild  flapping 
and  a crash,  as  Peter  and  Edgar  Allan  came  down  to  the 
floor  together — the  picture  in  a state  of  ruin  in  which  it 
remains  today — “to  witness  if  I lie.” 

Peter  might  be  trying  to  qualify  himself  as  an  after- 
dinner  speaker.  For  he  manages  to  talk,  or  seem  to  talk, 
longer,  and  to  say  less  than  anyone,  except  an  orator 
speaking  about  education,  or  world-peace,  or  any  other 
of  the  great,  vague  topics.  His  actual  powers  of  discourse, 
of  imparting  ideas,  are  limited.  But  his  apparent  flow 
of  talk  is  like  the  water  coming  down  at  Lodore.  Left 
alone  in  a room,  he  begins  a low  murmur  of  what  he 
calls  conversation.  I translate:  ' 

Well,  they’ve  done  it  again — yes,  they  have — gone  off 
and  left  me  here  in  the  window — no  fresh  seed,  no  apple, 
ain’t  had  a thing  since  breakfast,  and  now  they  go  into  an- 
other room  and  leave  me  here  to  entertain  myself — pretty 
fine  sort  of  treatment  I call  it,  why,  dod-gast  ’em  all,  what 
do  they  think  I’ll  stand  for^  Hey,  tell  me  that,  will  you? 
I’ve  half  a mind  to  give  a hell  of  a yell — that  would  fetch 
’em  all  right.  All  these  old  seeds  too;  nothin’  in  ’em,  got 
all  the  good  out  of  ’em  long  ago.  Well,  I’ll  heave  a fist 
full  onto  the  floor — that’ll  make  ’em  sorry  they  used  me  so. 
I’ll  say  so ! I’ll  say  it  will ! Now,  I’ll  go  down  stairs,  down 
in  the  bottom  of  the  cage,  and  scratch  some  sand  overboard — 
that  always  makes  ’em  pretty  peevish ! Here  goes,  then. 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


124 

head  down,  lower  yourself  off  your  perch  head  first,  Father 
used  to  say,  and  I guess  the  old  boy  knew  the  proper  way, 
if  anyone  did.  . . . Easy  now,  e-a-s-y,  and  s-l-o-w  does  it, 
no  use  rushin’.  Other  leg,  now,  one  at  a time — safety  first, 
old  top ! There  we  are.  And  while  I’m  here  it  wouldn’t 
do  no  harm  to  say  I've  got  a hair  cut!  Got  a hair  cut!  Yes, 

I have.  Now  let’s  see  what  next?  Oh  yes,  scratch  a little 
sand  overboard.  There’s  a sunflower  seed — must  have 
missed  that  at  breakfast.  Well,  we’ll  take  care  of  that  all 
right,  um-m-m,  thirty-two  chews  to  each  mouthful;  Fletcher- 
ize,  hey,  what?  That’s  why  we  live  to  be  a hundred.  By 
the  way,  guess  I’ll  go  up  on  that  perch  again,  perhaps  I can 
get  him  to  come  and  scratchem  head!  Scratchem  head! 
Here  goes  now.  First  I stand  on  my  head — like  the  White 
Knight  getting  over  a gate — then  reach  up  with  my  hind 
leg,  and  grab  the  perch  with  that.  E-a-s-y  now,  g-o  s-l-o-w, 
now,  g-o  s-l-o-w,  only  fool  Americans  kill  themselves  rushin’. 
Here  we  are  again,  now  let’s  see  if  it  will  work.  First,  I’ll 
ruffle  up  all  the  feathers  on  my  head  and  neck,  bend  over 
my  head,  and  close  one  eye,  with  an  especially  imbecile  look, 
then  grab  the  side  of  my  face  with  one  claw.  He  never  can 
resist  that.  He’ll  scratch  my  head  for  me,  when  he  sees  me, 
after  I strike  the  pose.  Now,  all  ready,  camera!  Scratchem 
head!  Scratchem  head!  There,  he’s  cornin’.  Hold  it ! As 
you  were!  Now,  in  a wheezy  tone:  Scratchem  head!  Here 
he  comes!  What  did  I tell  yer? 

I have  been  on  amiable  terms,  at  one  time  or  another, 
with  two  dogs  and  a horse;  have  been  rather  friendly 
with  five  or  six  fish,  some  turtles,  with  one  rabbit  (white), 
one  mouse  (white),  an  alligator,  four  lizards,  a pigeon, 
some  small  snakes,  a crow,  two  ducks,  some  hens,  two 
canaries  and  a toad.  I have  had  more  than  a passing 
acquaintance  with  a toucan,  a kiwi,  who  was  losing  his 
eyesight,  a chipmunk,  three  extraordinary  otters  (the  best 
of  all!),  a marabou  stork  of  polygamous  habits  and  ex- 
tremely disreputable  countenance,  a pelican,  and  a coypu 


THE  BIRD 


125 


— who  for  fastidiousness  about  his  personal  appearance 
made  Beau  Brummel  seem  a sloven.  In  no  one  of  these 
have  I failed  to  discover,  even  after  the  shortest  acquaint* 
ance,  a distinct  and  a pleasing  personality.  He  who 
fancies  that  one  red  hen  is  exactly  like  another  red  hen 
only  displays  his  own  pitiful  ignorance.  And  it  is  through 
individuality,  as  I once  heard  a wise  man  say  (his  name 
was  Josiah  Royce),  that  we  win  immortality.  Or,  as  it 
goes,  in  some  verses  by  Walter  Savage  Landor: 

Life  (priest  and  poet  say)  is  but  a dream; 

I wish  no  happier  one  than  to  be  laid 
Beneath  a cool  syringa’s  scented  shade, 

Or  wavy  willow,  by  the  running  stream, 

Brimful  of  moral,  where  the  dragon-fly 
Wanders  as  careless  and  content  as  I. 

Thanks  for  this  fancy,  insect  king. 

Of  purple  crest  and  filmy  wing, 

Who  with  indifference  givest  up 
The  water-lily’s  golden  cup. 

To  come  again  and  overlook 
What  I am  writing  in  my  book. 

Believe  me,  most  who  read  the  line 
Will  read  with  hornier  eyes  than  thine; 

And  yet  their  souls  shall  live  forever. 

And  thine  drop  dead  into  the  river  1 
God  pardon  them,  O insect  king, 

Who  fancy  so  unjust  a thing! 


WITH,  HO!  SUCH  BUGS  AND  GOBLINS 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WITH,  ho!  such  bugs  and  goblins 

A few  years  ago  I wrote  a little  parable  to  try  to  make 
clear  the  quarrel  of  the  dime  novel  versus  the  re- 
spectable novel.  In  it,  a small  boy  was  supposed  to  have 
been  detected  by  one  of  the  guardians  of  his  literary 
morals  reading  one  of  those  ancient  bugbears — a dime 
novel.  He  is  sent  to  his  home  in  deep  disgrace,  accom- 
panied by  the  shameful  pamphlet,  and  also  by  a highly 
recommended  and  entirely  proper  story — to  wit, 
“Treasure  Island,”  which  all  well-informed  grown-ups 
not  only  allow  to  children,  but  fairly  cram  down  their 
throats.  The  boy’s  aunt  and  another  lady,  who  have 
him  in  their  care,  open  the  package  containing  the  two 
books  and  inspect  them  quite  without  either  prejudice 
or  knowledge.  They  are  fearfully  concerned  because 
Horace  has  been  “reading  a dime  novel”  since  they  have 
not  the  least  fragment  of  doubt  that  such  an  action  is 
the  first  step  which  leads  to  the  gallows  in  this  world,  and 
damnation  in  the  next.  Sampling  the  two  books,  in  order 
to  separate  the  dove  from  the  serpent,  they  dip  first  into 
“Treasure  Island”  and  naturally  come  upon  a gory  fight. 
Bloodshed  and  violence!  Can  there  be  any  doubt  that 
this  is  the  well  of  poison?  They  instantly  seize  Steven- 
son’s novel  with  the  fire-tongs  and  carry  it  off  to  be  con- 
sumed in  the  kitchen  stove.  Thus,  having  ridden  the 

house  of  contamination,  they  come  back  to  “Luck  and 

129 


130 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


Pluck,  or  Working  for  the  Government,”  the  very  book 
for  which  Horace  was  at  that  moment  whimpering  in 
bed,  supperless.  They  read  the  opening  pages  of  it,  and 
find  a tale  so  extremely  chaste,  ethical,  and  overflowing 
with  rectitude,  that  they  salute  it  as  on  a par  with  those 
in  their  own  favorite  magazine,  the  Congregational 
Observer. 

But  I wasted  my  pains.  Nobody  believed  in  “Luck 
and  Pluck,”  although  I solemnly  declare  that  the  ex- 
tract which  I quoted  was  copied  verbatim  from  a dime — 
or  “half-dime” — novel  of  that  title  bought  by  me  “in  the 
open  market.”  Then,  as  now  (for  some  horror  of  the 
dime  novel  still  lingers,  here  and  there,  just  as  Beelzebub 
still  inspires  fear),  the  dime  novel  is  roundly  denounced 
by  persons  who  never  read  a page  from  one  of  them  in 
their  lives,  as  the  cigarette  is  assailed  by  reformers  like 
Miss  Lucy  Page  Gaston,  who  very  likely  never  smoked  a 
whole  box  of  cigarettes  at  one  time  in  all  her  career. 

The  ancient  bugaboo  is  always  ludicrous.  We  can 
become  gay  over  the  absurd  terrors  suffered  by  our  ances- 
tors in  their  dread  of  witches,  and  over  the  ridiculous 
precautions  they  took  against  them.  Yet  it  is  doubtful 
if  any  of  these  terrors  were  more  absurd,  or  any  of  the 
precautions  more  extravagant  than  those  inspired  in  some 
folk  of  our  own  time  by  the  fear  of  infection.  When 
whole  families  have  given  themselves  up,  not  as  an  occa- 
sional necessary  measure,  but  as  a career,  as  a pious  exer- 
cise, to  gurglings,  sprayings,  inhalations  and  inoculations, 
in  much  the  same  ecstasy  with  which  a Buddhist  adept 
repeats  the  mystic  prayer  forty  thousand  times  in  suc- 
cession— why  should  we  giggle  about  witchcraft? 


THE  GAMBLER  PIRATE;  or,  Bessie,  the  Lady  of  the  Lagoon, 


BY  COL.  PRENTISS  INGRAHAM, 


«vv  rmt.*  nu 


WITH,  HO!  SUCH  BUGS  AND  GOBLINS  131 

But  the  horror  inspired  by  the  dime  novel  is  harder  to 
understand.  Was  the  firm  and  almost  universal  belief 
that  they  were  “immoral”  eagerly  fostered  and  circulated, 
as  it  is  asserted,  by  agents  of  some  “respectable”  pub- 
lishing houses,  to  whom  the  immorality  consisted  in  the 
fact  that  they  sold  for  ten  cents  instead  of  a dollar  and 
a half?  Or  was  it  because  they  were  new,  and  popular, 
and  therefore  must  be  bad,  on  the  theory  that  anything 
which  is  widely  enjoyed — like  the  cigarette,  the  moving 
picture  show,  and  the  flapper — is  necessarily  wicked? 

Lately  I watched  some  of  my  associates  in  the  New 
York  Public  Library  prepare  for  exhibition  more  than  a 
thousand  dime  novels,  publications  of  the  pioneer  firm  of 
Beadle  and  Adams.  Books  which  within  my  own  recol- 
lection had  been  considered  an  abomination,  books  which 
librarians  had  regarded  with  a shudder,  to  be  sprinkled, 
metaphorically,  w'ith  holy  w’ater,  and  thrust  into  the 
index  librorum  prohibitorum,  were  unblushingly,  nay, 
proudly,  placed  on  show,  and  duly  ticketed  as  “Dime- 
Novels,”  for  all  to  see!  What  strange  suggestions  this 
had  of  a rapid  growth  in  intelligence. 

The  old  style  arithmetician  might  calculate  that  if  all 
the  switches,  hickory  sticks,  straps,  hair-brush  backs,  and 
other  instruments  of  torture  which  have  been  applied  by 
angry  parents  to  the  readers  of  novels  in  this  collection 
should  be  placed  “end  to  end”  they  would  reach  from 
William  Street  in  New  York,  where  the  novels  used  to  be 
published,  to  Cooperstown,  where  Erastus  Beadle  ended 
his  days.  And  there  would  be  enough  over  to  lay  a single 
track  of  them  to  Buffalo,  where  he  first  became  a pub- 
lisher. By  the  same  token,  if  all  the  tears  shed  by  dis- 


132 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


tressed  mothers  and  aunts,  on  discovering  that  their  boys 
were  “reading  dime  novels,”  should  be  added  to  the  tears 
soon  forthcoming  from  the  boys  themselves,  after  the 
traditional  visit  to  the  wood-shed  with  father,  the  result- 
ing body  of  salt  water  would  be  more  than  enough  to 
float  not  only  the  ship  of  “The  Pirate  Priest,  or  The 
Planter  Gambler’s  Daughter,”  by  Colonel  Prentiss  Ingra- 
ham— one  of  Beadle’s  authors — but  there  would  also  be 
enough  for  the  black  bark  of  “The  Gambler  Pirate,  or 
Bessie,  the  Lady  of  the  Lagoon” — another  of  Colonel 
Ingraham’s  novels. 

By  the  way,  let  us  pause  a moment  to  admire  the  pic- 
ture of  “The  Gambler  Pirate,”  one  of  the  later  Beadle 
publications.  It  is  probably  by  the  versatile  George  G. 
White,  who  designed  so  many  scores  of  these  stirring 
pictures,  and  with  liberal  hand  illustrated  the  pages  of 
such  diverse  publications  as  the  Police  Gazette  and  the 
Christian  Herald.  The  pirate  chief  strides  the  deck  of 
his  ship.  His  whiskers  are  black,  curly,  ambrosial.  He 
wears  a three-cornered  hat,  a swallow-tail  coat,  and  tight, 
white  breeches.  But  he  is  defied  by  a lady  in  a sort 
of  Empire  gown — with  Y.W.C.A.  modifications.  This 
is  the  caption:  “Hold,  Captain  Forrester!  Surrender  or 
you  Die!”  “God  Above!  You  risen  from  the  Deep, 
Mabel  Mortimer!” 

There  are  at  least  three  good  reasons  why  a public 
library  does  well  to  care  for  and  to  exhibit  such  a collec- 
tion as  this.  The  first  is  that  the  dime  novel,  especially 
as  it  was  published  by  its  originator,  the  firm  of  Beadle 
and  Adams,  formed  an  interesting  by-path  in  the  develop- 
ment of  American  literature,  no  less  significant  than  the 


TIIK 


71 


i/k  A 


WITH,  HO!  SUCH  BUGS  AND  GOBLINS  133 

English  chap-book  of  a century  ago.  It  is  intellectual 
snobbery  to  patronize  one  and  to  neglect  the  other. 
Second,  the  exhibition  is  an  object  lesson;  a pathetic 
display  of  a defunct  bogey.  It  is  perpetually  useful  for 
each  generation  to  see  how  much  unnecessary  anguish  has 
been  suffered  in  the  past  over  things  which  were  really 
harmless.  Dime  novels  began  as  rather  good  historical 
novels;  at  their  worst  they  were  no  more  than  exciting 
stories  written  sometimes,  but  not  always,  in  careless 
English.  They  were  never  immoral ; on  the  contrary  they 
reeked  of  morality.  Property  rights  were  never  confused; 
and  when  sexual  ethics  were  involved,  their  standards 
make  the  modern  two-dollar  novel  look  as  foul  as  Vul- 
can’s stithy.  Finally  there  are  to  be  considered  the  pleas- 
ant recollections  which  an  exhibition  of  this  kind  brought 
to  the  older  generation.  The  old  gentlemen  who  slipped 
in,  looking  somewhat  furtively  about  (as  if  Father,  with 
his  trunk-strap,  hovered  near-by)  and  went  with  increas- 
ing delight  from  one  show-case  to  the  next,  as  they  re- 
called one  old  friend  after  another — these  visitors  were 
a continual  pleasure  to  the  planners  of  the  exhibition. 

Dr.  Frank  O’Brien  made  this  collection  of  more  than 
thirteen  hundred  publications  of  the  house  of  Beadle 
(together  with  some  hundreds  of  specimens  from  their 
followers  and  imitators)  and  spent  twenty  years  at  it. 
Two  years  ago  many  of  his  duplicates  were  sold  at  auction 
and  the  prices  which  they  brought  showed  that  there  were 
enthusiastic  collectors,  willing  to  pay  well  to  fill  gaps  in 
their  own  sets. 

Erastus  F.  Beadle,  a descendant  of  American  pioneers 
and  soldiers,  was  born  in  Otsego  County,  New  York,  in 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


134 

1821.  Working  as  a boy  for  a miller,  he  found  a need 
one  day  for  letters  of  some  sort  to  label  the  bags  of  grain. 
He  cut  the  letters  from  blocks  of  hardwood,  as  Guten- 
berg’s predecessors  had  done.  This  experience  interested 
him  in  printing;  he  learned  the  art,  and  by  1852  had  a 
printing  shop  of  his  own.  In  1858  he  moved  to  New 
York  to  test  an  idea  which  had  come  to  him:  the  publica- 
tion of  books  to  be  sold  at  ten  cents,  song-books,  joke- 
books,  and  finally  novels.  He  originated  the  dime  novel, 
and  in  1 860  published  the  first  of  them,  a small  pamphlet 
with  orange  paper  covers.  The  firm  of  Beadle  and  Adams 
continued  their  business  until  1897,  and  the  different 
forms  in  which  their  dime  publications  were  issued  are 
known  to  collectors  as  Type  A,  B,  C,  etc.,  down  to 
Type  M. 

The  first  of  these  types  were  mainly  historical  novels 
of  the  American  Revolution,  or  of  early  pioneer  life. 
Among  them  was  Edward  S.  Ellis’s  “Seth  Jones,”  a 
story  of  frontier  life  in  New  York  in  1785.  More  than 
450,000  copies  were  sold.  Others  were  Mrs.  Victor’s 
“Maum  Guinea,”  a story  of  slave-life,  esteemed,  so  it  is 
said,  by  President  Lincoln;  “The  Reefer  of  ’76,  or  The 
Cruise  of  the  Firefly,”  by  Harry  Cavendish;  and  “The 
Maid  of  Esopus,  or  The  Trials  and  Triumphs  of  the 
Revolution,”  by  N.  C.  Iron.  With  Type  B,  the  novels 
assumed  a cover  in  three  colors,  and  a more  decidedly 
frontier  flavor:  “The  Prairie  Scourge,”  “The  Schuylkill 
Rangers,”  “Red  Jacket,  the  Huron,”  and  “Mohawk 
Nat”  are  some  of  the  titles.  About  nine-tenths  of  the 
settings,  then  and  later,  were  American. 

By  the  late  seventies  and  early  eighties,  the  covers  in 


'4'a:s»«.  tMi44*ci4< 


Vol.l 


W Wiui4«  tn^  Men  Ymul 


No.  4. 


THE  DOUBLE  DAGGERS 


, Or,  DEADWOOD  DICK’S 
I DEFIANCE. 


BY  EDWARD  U WHEELER. 


i- 


WITH,  HOI  SUCH  BUGS  AND  GOBLINS  135 

black  and  white,  and  the  larger  magazine  size,  had  come 
into  use.  The  bison  and  the  grizzly,  cowboy  and  Indian, 
scout,  trapper,  road-agent  and  pony-express  rider  were 
the  themes.  These  are  the  dime  novels  which  many  of 
us  remember  on  the  news-stands  in  our  youth.  I cannot 
sentimentalize  over  them,  as  I never  read  a dime  novel 
until  I was  thirty,  owing  to  a trick  played  upon  me  by 
my  parents.  They  never  forbade  me  to  read  dime  novels 
at  all. 

Old  Sleuth,  Nick  Carter,  and  Old  Cap  Collier  were 
associated  with  other  publishing  firms  than  that  of 
Beadle.  Old  Cap  Collier  belongs  to  the  house  of  Munro. 
The  two  most  famous  creations  of  the  Beadle  authors 
were  Deadwood  Dick,  invented  by  a very  mild  looking 
gentleman  named  Edward  L.  Wheeler;  and  Jack  Hark- 
away,  a languid  dare-devil  about  town,  of  the  Tom  and 
Jerry  type.  Deadwood  Dick,  who  appeared  on  his  faith- 
ful black  steed  in  1884,  began  a series  of  adventures 
called  after  his  name  (with  such  titles  as  “Deadwood 
Dick  on  Deck,  or  Calamity  Jane  the  Heroine  of  Whoop 
Up”),  and  was  the  forerunner  of  many  alliterative  heroes 
out  of  Mr.  Wheeler’s  imagination:  Omaha  Oil,  Photo- 
graph Phil,  Corduroy  Charlie,  and  Rosebud  Rob. 

Toward  the  end  (when  Type  M was  reached)  the  sen- 
sational element  predominated,  although  such  excellent 
authors  as  Captain  Mayme  Reid  were  still  reprinted,  and 
the  rules  of  delicacy,  in  the  treatment  of  elegant  females 
— and  there  were  never  any  inelegant  ones — were  still 
those  of  a refined  seminary  for  young  ladies.  Heroines 
in  the  most  distressing  danger  still  kept  the  folds  of  their 
long  skirts  trailing  upon  the  ground;  they  hunted  jaguars 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


136 

in  the  South  American  jungles  primly  seated  upon  a side- 
saddle, and  wearing  a habit  which  would  have  been 
correct  in  Central  Park  in  1868.  Their  bathing  costumes 
might  cause  their  persecution  for  prudery  today,  but 
nothing  else.  But  for  the  heroes  and  villains  no  ordinary 
encounter  with  an  Indian  brave,  a mountain  lion,  or  a 
pirate,  was  enough.  The  fight,  man  to  man,  with  bowie 
knives,  would  no  longer  thrill  the  veins  in  1887.  No; 
when  the  outlaw  hung  the  ranger  over  the  cliff  by  his 
heels,  the  w’hile  the  latter  meditated  whether  he  should 
give  up  the  secret  of  the  hidden  cache,  his  reflections  had 
to  be  stimulated  by  snapping  crocodiles  below,  and 
hungry  vultures  who  assailed  from  above.  In  “Double 
Dan  the  Dastard,  or  the  Pirates  of  the  Pecos,”  by  Major 
Sam  S.  Hall  (“Buckskin  Sam”),  three  unfortunate  per- 
sons (villains,  I have  no  doubt)  are  crucified  upon  trees, 
while  pumas  creep  toward  them  in  the  gathering  gloom. 
We  are  told  that  “the  very  hair  upon  the  captives’  heads 
seemed  to  crawl  like  scorched  serpents,  and  a piercing 
shriek,  yes,  shriek  after  shriek,  sprung  from  the  blacked 
and  bleeding  lips  of  each.” 

The  dime  novel  had  degenerated ; horrors  had  accumu- 
lated on  horror’s  head  too  many  hundred  times.  But 
have  the  “Perils  of  Pauline”  type  of  moving  picture,  the 
“Giddy  Stories”  type  of  magazine,  and  many  of  the 
novels  of  today,  shown  a marked  improvement  over 
them?  The  old  devotees  of  the  Beadle  novels  have  an 
emphatic  opinion  on  that  point,  and  their  answer  is  in 
the  negative. 

In  order  to  compare  the  dime  novel,  at  its  most  im- 
moral, sensational  and  diabolical  worst,  with  a novel 


fxnBsumoa. 


YYTT  £r*ff  f^eadle  <ff- <PnhlifihArs, 

VUl.AAll.  • #TLU*Ji  man.  ji  T.  i>w»*r7  t,t** 


No.  276 


TEXAS  CHICK,  THE  SOUTHWEST  OEIECTIVEI 


BY  CAPTAIN  MARK  WILTON, 

Actwm  C*  •'CAfTTt  lACK,*  “6«W  KMinn'-.'*  “LAIIT  JAOrAJt.*  • TM*  •eonfjo*  KXomw,*  "CAVTOM  » *TC  , »tr. 


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WITH,  HO!  SUCH  BUGS  AND  GOBLINS  137 

like,  say,  “The  Sheik,”  read  today  by  thousands  of  highly 
respectable  folk,  I started  to  read  “Dion  the  Dashing 
Detective,  or  Link  after  Link,”  by  W.  I.  James.  This 
was  in  the  Old  Cap  Collier  Library  in  1883.  It  opens 
with  spirit : 

“By  Heaven — they’re  lost!” 

“No!  No! — look  there! — he’s  a hero — brave  fel- 
low!” 

But  these  lines  are  followed  by  this  topographical 
explanation : 

“These  exclamations  were  from  a crowd  around  the 
northwest  corner  of  Union  Square,  where  Broadway, 
University  Place,  and  Fourteenth  Street  meet.  Three 
lines  of  Broadway  stages  round  that  corner.  Two  of  the 
busiest  lines  of  street  cars  cross  each  other  at  that  point. 
Crowds  of  pedestrians  converge  there  from  all  direc- 
tions. . . .” 

This  was  altogether  too  much  like  my  evening  walk 
toward  home;  I yearned  for  something  more  dastardly 
than  this.  Perhaps  I could  find  it  in  “Night  Scenes  in 
New  York;  In  Darkness  and  by  Gaslight,”  by  Old  Sleuth 
(H.  P.  Halsey).  This  appeared  in  1885.  The  beginning 
is  in  these  words: 

“In  a plainly  furnished  room  in  the  upper  part  of  the 
City  of  New  York,  were  two  persons,  a young  girl  and 
a fierce,  bad-looking  man.” 

Come,  this  is  better,  the  upper  part  of  the  City  of  New 
York;  a little  farther  from  home.  Also  I like  being  left 
in  no  doubt  about  the  man;  he  is  bad-looking.  Now  the 
girl  speaks: 

“Back!  Back!  On  your  life,  stand  back!” 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


138 

To  which  the  bad-looking  one  makes  this  tame  and 
disappointing  reply: 

“Adele,  I love  you.” 

She  sarcastically  retorts: 

“And  you  would  prove  your  love  by  acts  of  violence?” 

But  the  idea  is  intolerable  to  him : 

“You  are  wrong,  I would  only  persuade  you  to  be 
my  wife,” 

How  tame  compared  with  “The  Sheik”!  The  girl 
suggests  that  perhaps  he  is  mistaken  in  thinking  that  she 
is  “in  his  power.”  She  observes  that  the  janitor  and  his 
wife  must  be  somewhere  about.  But  here  he  shows  the 
cloven  hoof  and  remarks  that  the  janitor  and  his  wife  are 
“creatures”  of  his,  in  his  employ.  Again  he  urges  her 
to  marry  him.  Listen  to  her  defiance,  her  crowning  effort : 

“Hear  me,  Lyman  Treadwell;  I am  but  a poor  shop- 
girl; my  present  life  is  a struggle  for  a scanty  existence; 
my  future  a life  of  toil ; but  over  my  present  life  of  suffer- 
ing, there  extends  a rainbow  of  hope.  . . . Life  is  short, 
eternity  endless — the  grave  is  but  the  entrance  to  eternity.  1 

And  you,  villain ! ask  me  to  change  my  present  peace  for  a 
life  of  horror  with  you.  No,  monster,  rather  may  I die 
at  once !” 

At  this  point  a comic  German,  with  a revolver,  breaks 
in  and  rescues  the  girl.  But  I had  no  further  interest  in 
either  of  them.  No  matter  how  “bad-looking”  he  might 
be,  a monster  named  Lyman  Treadwell  could  not  excite 
my  sympathy  nor  aversion.  Anybody  who  would  stand 
still  under  an  oration  like  that  is  too  stodgy  to  satisfy 
my  requirements  for  a villain. 


VrtI  Will  •»*»!  Ji<adU  <f>  jidrtms.  'Pnh/tsfters.  t«c«u*«*fy  Nn  009 

VUI.  ATlll.  vmM  • »rii4a.%a  mart  R r *1  .m  tiootT^/  HU-  4^^ 

BILL, THE  BLIZZARD;  or,  Red  Jack’s  Double  Crime. 

A ST«KY  or  THE  MV8TCRY  OP  TCH8POT  OUECH. 

BY  KDWARI3  W I I-  1-  IC  X X 


iMi  ft  <<»  ••  *■*»  * ■ 


fsxac  usmox 


Vol.  XX. 


cSead7f.  'Pnhhshtrs, 

m W1LUOI  (tmzrr.  s t it  tm 


’«»rTir  No.  256 


DOUBLE  DAN, THE  DASTARD;  or, THE  pirates  df  the  pesos. 


BY  MAJOR  SAM  S.  HAIiL-“BucksMn  Sam.” 


Arm  -K  M "MAMon  o*tx."  " m uat«  btaa  OAMuit'  “tu  tuaivlb  rosOAVAT,*  “ur  caJwt^.  jk.,*  "ne  root  waU-lcx.”  rr 


THE  CARY  GIRLS 


CHAPTER  IX 


THE  CARY  GIRLS 

There  was  once  a bashful  old  professor  of  literature 
at  Yale,  who  ended  a course  of  lectures  on  American 
writers  by  uttering  a deprecatory  cough,  and  an  apology. 
“Gentlemen,”  he  explained,  “when  I commenced  these 
lectures,  I intended  if  time  allowed,  to  embrace  both 
Phoebe  and  Alice  Cary.” 

As  I write  this,  I am  sitting  at  a window  from  which 
I have  many  times  seen  the  Cary  sisters — their  blue  veils 
flying — go  by  to  their  work.  Not  Phoebe  and  Alice,  but 
Miss  Hattie  and  Miss  Ellen  Cary,  who  were  much  con- 
cerned with  the  art  of  literature  in  our  town. 

The  Twentieth  Century  has  altered  Lanesport.  The 
town  hall  where  we  used  to  see  Ullie  Akerstrom, 
“Lanesport’s  Favorite  Actress,”  in  “Uncle  Tom’s  Cabin” 
(with  the  blood-hounds  led  through  the  street  in  proces- 
sion before  the  show),  is  now  a Community  Hall,  housing 
the  Plaza  Picture  Palace.  Mrs.  Bagley’s  millinery  estab- 
lishment is  replaced  by  the  Up-To-Date  Garage;  and 
Mr.  Davenport’s  little  shop,  with  its  low  and  dingy  ceil- 
ing, where  he  would  sell  you  delicious  molasses  candy,  or 
open  at  your  demand  innumerable  oysters  which  he  or 
his  son  had  taken  from  their  beds  early  that  morning — 
this  place  now  appears  with  flamboyant  decoration  and 
enlarged  area  as  Kondokoupolos  Brothers’  House  of 
Sweets.  But  more  than  anything  I resent  the  transforma- 


142 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


tion  of  Miss  Cary’s  circulating  library  into  La  Fortune’s 
Phonograph  Parlor  and  Souvenir  Post-card  Emporium, 

About  twenty  minutes  before  nine  every  morning  the 
Cary  girls  would  trot  down  our  street,  Miss  Hattie  to 
open  the  reading-room  in  the  public  library,  and  Miss 
Ellen  to  her  own  little  circulating  library,  where  she  sat 
all  morning  and  afternoon,  renting  books  at  two  cents  a 
day.  They  v/ere  white-haired  women  when  I first  knew 
them,  but  they  had  never  married,  and  so  by  the  custom 
of  the  town,  they  were  and  would  remain  the  “Cary 
girls”  even  though  they  lived  to  four-score  and  ten. 

Miss  Hattie  was  tall  and  slender;  Miss  Ellen,  short 
and  stout.  Miss  Ellen  might  have  posed  for  Queen 
Victoria.  Indeed,  some  years  later,  when  the  fashion 
for  “Living  Pictures”  reached  Lanesport,  I am  not  sure 
she  was  not  induced  to  put  on  a black  gown  and  a widow’s 
cap,  and  impersonate  that  diminutive  and  dignified 
monarch.  Both  sisters  parted  their  hair  in  the  middle, 
and  wore  long  blue  cloaks  in  summer  and  “fur-lined  cir- 
culars” in  the  winter.  Their  bonnets  were  not  unlike 
those  now  worn  by  the  Salvation  Army  girls,  except  that 
they  were  complicated  by  the  windings  of  yards  and  yards 
of  blue  veils. 

You  may  be  inclined  to  dismiss  them  as  a couple  of 
“New  England  old  maids,”  since  spinsters,  it  is  well 
known,  exist  only  in  New  England.  They  appear  to  you, 
perhaps,  as  relics  of  that  Puritanism  which  so  many  peo- 
ple are  now  engaged  in  deriding.  But  it  is  not  in  this 
light  that  I remember  them.  They  had  their  standards 
and  their  limitations,  and  their  points  of  conservatism, 
but  that  they  were  just  as  eager  for  human  progress  as 


THE  CARY  GIRLS 


143 


many  of  the  platitudinous  “liberals”  and  “radicals”  who 
haunt  the  book-shops  of  Greenwich  Village,  there  is  not 
in  my  mind  an  atom  of  doubt. 

Like  those  radicals,  they  were  opposed  to  bloodshed. 
But  instead  of  the  healthy  and  necessary  bloodshed  of 
Germans  in  Belgium  and  France — which  so  disturbed  the 
radicals — the  trial  of  brute  force  which  horrified  Miss 
Hattie  and  Miss  Ellen  was  the  projected  fight  between 
John  L.  Sullivan  and  Corbett  in  New  Orleans.  They 
thought  it  disgraceful  that  such  a spectacle  should  be 
allowed  “in  this  nineteenth  century.”  They  grieved  at 
my  interest  in  it.  But  when  I met  them,  on  my  way  to 
school  the  morning  after  the  fight,  their  concerted,  ex- 
cited, and  altogether  human  inquiry  was:  “Who  won  the 
fight?” 

Miss  Ellen  Cary’s  circulating  library  was  all  contained 
in  a small  room.  The  walls  were  lined  and  the  floor-space 
covered  with  book-cases  and  the  books  were  protected  and 
disguised  by  brown-paper  covers.  Surely  The  Purple 
Pagan,  the  radical  book-shop  near  Washington  Square, 
which  I occasionally  visit  nowadays,  is  a brighter,  more 
vivid,  and  apparently  more  exciting  place.  But  for  all 
its  color  and  uneasy  exploitation  of  various  egotisms,  it 
does  not  inspire  my  imagination  as  much  as  Miss  Cary’s 
dismal-looking  collection.  And  this  is  curious,  since  all 
its  art  is  supposed  to  set  the  imagination  afire;  its  sculp- 
tors scorn  to  model  more  of  a human  figure  than  an  elbow 
sticking  out  of  a solid  block  of  clay.  Your  imagination 
is  called  upon  to  supply  the  rest  of  the  figure. 

In  Miss  Cary’s  library  you  stood  and  wondered  what 
was  behind  those  paper  covers.  What  strange  voyage 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


144 

or  extraordinary  chapters  of  wonder  might  be  disclosed 
if  you  took  one  of  those  volumes  home?  There  had  been 
some  great  moments.  A tale  of  a suicide  club,  and  the 
story  of  a rajah’s  diamond  had  been  found  in  one  called 
“The  New  Arabian  Nights,”  by  a Scotchman  whose  life 
was  then  drawing  to  a close  in  the  South  Sea  Islands. 
There  were  some  crisp  and  tingling  little  stories  about 
India  by  a newspaper  man  from  Lahore,  who  had  just 
offended  America  by  his  flippant  account  of  his  visit  to 
this  country.  My  brother  had  recently  come  home  with 
two  poems  which  he  had  committed  to  memory — two 
extraordinary  poems  which  filled  me  with  delight.  They 
were  also  by  this  newspaper  man  from  India,  and  they 
were  called  “Gunga  Din”  and  “Mandalay.”  And  for 
the  next  ten  years  I never  hesitated  to  horrify  my  elders 
by  saying  that  Kipling  and  Stevenson  were  far  better 
than  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Now  it  is  my  turn  to  be  horrified 
and  disgusted  when  I hear  that  boys  in  school  and 
college  think  that  only  old  fogies  read  Kipling  and 
Stevenson.  Who  is  better?  I tremulously  cry.  Not 
? or ? Don’t  make  me  laugh ! 

Miss  Cary  lent  me  a book  called  “The  Three  Impos- 
tors,” by  Arthur  Machen  (who  had  been  reading  “The 
New  Arabian  Nights,”  I could  see),  and  it  was  very  much 
to  my  taste.  The  proprietor  of  The  Purple  Pagan  has 
just  discovered  Arthur  Machen  (more  than  twenty-five 
years  after  Miss  Ellen  Cary)  and  offers  me  his  books  at 
a fancy  price. 


THE  CARY  GIRLS 


145 

It  would  be  wrong  to  say  that  the  Cary  girls  have  no 
representatives  today.  There  is  Mr.  Falcon,  the  owner 
of  a quiet  book-shop  in  New  York.  He  is  the  gravest 
book-dealer  in  the  city.  He  raises  his  head  from  his  desk 
and  surveys  me  with  his  mild  blue  eyes.  He  bows  cour- 
teously as  I come  in  his  shop,  and  asks  how  he  may  serve 
me.  His  hair  and  beard  are  so  fine  and  silvery  that  I 
would  liken  him  to  an  etching  by — but  I never  can 
remember  who  did  the  etching.  The  Curator  of  Prints, 
to  whom  I submitted  the  question,  says  that  Seymour 
Haden  is  not  the  man.  The  Curator  does  not  know  my 
old  book-dealer,  and  I am  shaky  about  Seymour  Haden. 
So  the  point  may  never  be  settled. 

“I  would  like  to  look  about,”  I tell  the  book-dealer. 

“Is  there  some  subject  in  which  you  are  particularly 
interested?” 

There  are  fifteen  subjects,  and  this  news  is  imparted 
to  the  dealer.  He  shows  polite  disbelief  and  fatherly 
amusement.  I am  still  under  sixty,  and  I can  see  that 
the  old  book-dealer  thinks  it  distressing  that  so  young 
a reader  should  play  with  the  truth.  I mention  one  or 
two  of  my  interests,  but  it  does  no  good.  He  regards 
them  as  frivolous.  Mine  is  not  a case  needing  learned 
guidance,  Jimmie — who  is  about  thirteen — is  called, 
and  instructed  to  lead  me  to  see  some  of  the  books  I have 
indicated.  Jimmie  and  I walk  down  the  shop  together, 
and  I feel  grateful  not  to  be  given  a fairy-tale  and  told 
to  trot  away  home. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  many  book-dealers  arrive  at 
this  frame  of  mind.  Shyness  in  the  presence  of  books 
is  not  peculiar  to  one  side  of  the  counter. 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


146 

The  older  and  more  experienced  dealers  may  carry  too 
far  their  manner  of  paternal  tolerance  for  the  limitations 
of  the  young.  I knew  a girl  who  was  attracted  by  the 
pretty  edition  of  “The  Compleat  Angler,”  edited  by  Mr. 
I.e  Gallienne,  and  published  a dozen  years  ago  by  Mr. 
Lane.  Happening  to  be  in  a strange  city — famed  for  its 
book-shops — she  decided  to  buy  a copy  as  a gift.  She 
was  neither  wrinkled,  gray,  nor  be-spectacled — far  from 
any  of  these — but  she  had  spent  two  or  three  years  in 
the  order  division  of  a public  library,  during  its  organiza- 
tion, and  more  books  new  and  old  had  passed  through  her 
hands  and  under  her  observation  in  a week  than  the  clerks 
in  the  book-shop  to  which  she  applied  were  apt  to  handle 
in  a month.  A nice  old  gentleman  came  to  wait  oh  her, 
and  to  him  she  mentioned  her  wish,  saying  that  it  w’as  a 
new  edition,  and  adding  some  details  about  it. 

His  eyes  twinkled  behind  his  gold  eye-glasses.  Here 
was  a funny  story  to  tell  his  friends.  This  pretty  young 
school  girl,  who  had  gone  about  as  far  into  literature  as 
Richard  Harding  Davis’s  romances!  His  voice  was  so 
soothing  as  he  replied,  that  she  expected  him  to  pat  her 
hands. 

“My  dear  young  lady,”  said  he,  prolonging  the  word 
“dear,”  “ ‘The  Compleat  Angler’  is  a very,  very  old  book, 
written  a great  many  years  ago ” 

“Yes,  I know,”  she  interrupted,  “but  there  is  a new 
edition ” 

“By  Izaak  Walton,”  he  continued,  and  having  in- 
formed her  so  far,  and  wagging  his  head  in  a sort  of 
solemn  merriment,  to  show  that  he  was  not  angry  at  her 
preposterous  inquiry,  he  fairly  backed  her  out  of  the 


THE  CARY  GIRLS 


H7 

shop,  closed  the  door,  and  left  her  to  go  and  acquire 
age  and  wisdom. 

My  searches  in  the  shop  of  the  old  dealer  are  not  often 
successful.  As  soon  as  Jimmie  and  I pass  the  section  near 
the  door,  devoted  to  novels  of  the  present  year,  we  are 
immersed  in  the  Black  Walnut  period  of  American  litera- 
ture. That  fascinating  decade  when  Andrew  Lang  and 
Austin  Dobson  were  writing  ballades,  when  Frank  Stock- 
ton  was  writing  and  A.  B.  Frost  picturing  the  comedies 
of  American  country  life — this  pleasant  era  seems  to  be 
despised  by  my  old  gentleman.  He  has  no  past  except 
that  of  the  Beecher  trial  and  the  Danbury  News  Man. 
I inay  buy  a biography  of  Adoniram  Judson,  if  I wish, 
or  “Dred,  a Tale  of  the  Great  Dismal  Swamp.”  Miss 
Madeleine  Smith,  the  Edinburgh  beauty,  read  the  latter, 
by  the  way,  about  the  year  after  its  publication,  and 
nearly  at  the  same  time  when  she  was  refreshing  her  lover, 
M.  L’Angelier,  with  cocoa  thoughtfully  mixed  (so  it  was 
asserted)  with  arsenic.  She  did  not  enjoy  the  novel,  but 
it  was  all  the  amusement  she  had  on  a rainy  Sunday. 


It  is  a matter  of  fifty-one  blocks  in  distance  to  The 
Purple  Pagan^  and  the  change  is  from  Clarissa  Harlowe 
to  Ann  Veronica.  The  place  is  bright  with  new  book- 
covers,  and  posters  full  of  yellows  and  greens.  It  is  the 
“greenery-yallery,  Grosvenor  Gallery”  school  of  English 
jEstheticism,  dished  up  again  forty  years  later  and  en- 
livened by  one  jigger  of  Cubism,  one  of  Vorticism,  a dash 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


148 

of  Communism,  the  whole  mingled  with  that  which  Keats 
long  ago  saw  upon  a Grecian  urn  two  thousand  years  old 
— the  spirit  of  youth,  “forever  panting  and  forever 
young.” 

It  is  all  giddy  and  bright  and  a little  loony.  Here 
comes  Alys,  the  very  spirit  of  America’s  Bohemia.  Born 
in  Nebraska,  she  has  moved  to  New  York  “to  live  her 
own  life.”  To  her  fellow-townsmen  this  suggests  awful 
memories  of  George  Sand  and  her  carryings  on,  but  it 
really  means  nothing  worse  than  dining  when  she  feels 
so  inclined  on  chocolate  caramels,  cooked  on  an  alcohol 
flame  in  the  bath-tub.  She  has  a dear  friend  called 
Bernice  who  is  even  more  modern.  Back  in  1920  I saw 
Bernice  one  afternoon  turning  into  Eighth  Street;  she 
was  dressed  in  a kind  of  green  burlap.  She  wore  no 
stockings  but  had  carefully  painted  pansies  on  her  ankles. 
Two  dogs  backed  growling  into  an  area  as  she  passed 
by,  and  a baby  in  a perambulator,  seeing  her,  set  up  a 
terrific  howl.  “I  hope  you  don’t  think  we  dress  with 
attractiveness  in  mind!”  she  said  to  her  brother,  who  had 
come  on  to  visit  her.  “Well,  what  do  you  dress  for?” 
he  replied  faintly;  “political  reasons?” 

Poor  Bernice!  She  is  so  busy  in  being  modern  that 
there  is  no  chance  that  she  will  ever  discover  how  ancient 
she  really  is.  As  she  is  vowed  never  to  read  anything 
a year  old  she  will  never  see  herself  as  Lady  Jane,  Angela, 
Saphir  and  all  the  others  in  W.  S.  Gilbert’s  “Patience.” 
,Yet  there  she  was  forty  years  ago,  green  burlap  and  all, — 
or  as  Lady  Jane  said:  “a  cobwebby  grey  velvet,  with  a 
tender  bloom  like  cold  gravy,  which  made  Florentine 
Fourteenth  Century,  trimmed  with  Venetian  leather  and 


THE  CARY  GIRLS 


149 


Spanish  altar  lace,  and  surmounted  with  something  Jap- 
anese— it  matters  not  what — ” And  Bernice  has  much 
in  common  with  Mrs.  Cimabue  Brown,  a creation  of  a 
social  satirist  named  Du  Maurier,  of  whom,  however, 
she  has  never  heard.  She  offended  the  eye  with  peacock- 
feathers;  Bernice  does  it  with  batik;  but  they  look  alike 
as  two  string-beans. 

Alys  and  Bernice  are  much  “intrigued”  (for  they  still 
use  that  base-born  verb)  by  Morris,  who  came  a few 
years  ago,  when  he  was  fifteen,  from  southern  Russia. 
There  he  had  to  be  revolutionary  in  order  not  to  be  classed 
with  the  stupid  and  illiterate.  Here  he  keeps  on  being 
revolutionary  to  prove  that  he  is  still  intellectual,  and 
as  nobodj  asks  him  what  he  wishes  to  revolutionize,  the 
mental  effort  is  almost  negligible.  Looking  about  for 
tyrants,  he  descries  in  the  President  another  Nicholas  II, 
and  thinks  that  the  Governor  of  New  York  is  practically 
as  good,  for  his  purposes,  as  the  old  Procurator  of  the 
Holy  Synod.  All  the  people  he  knew  in  southern  Russia 
were  very  gloomy,  and  he  is  convinced  that  it  is  so  with 
the  Americans.  An  annoying  cheerfulness,  which  is 
sometimes  forced  upon  his  attention,  is  easily  dismissed. 
The  Intellectuals  are  not  that  way,  he  reflects.  For 
reasons  connected  with  his  digestion,  it  is  not  difficult  for 
Morris  to  fight  off  cheerfulness,  and  so  there  he  is,  both 
intellectual  and  pessimistic,  without  the  slightest  exer- 
tion. 

And  yet  they  are  uneasy.  Alys  and  Morris  and  Ber- 
nice are  perpetually  uncomfortable,  are  suffering  pangs 
which  are  no  part  of  their  programme.  Partly  this  is 
because  they  need  exercise  and  a change  from  eccentric 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


150 

food.  The  biliousness  of  their  art  is  symbolic.  But  their 
troubles  are  deeper  than  that ; they  live  in  constant  dread, 
— dread  of  being  conventional,  of  being  called  Puritani- 
cal or  Mid-Victorian.  Life  is  difficult  in  a circle  where 
the  rules  for  poetry  or  painting  are  laid  down  anew  each 
Monday  afternoon,  upset  by  another  authority  on 
Wednesday  in  favor  of  a new  code  of  laws,  which  are, 
in  turn,  declared  Mid-Victorian  on  Thursday  morning. 
Like  a girl  from  the  country,  who  dreads  to  be  called 
a prude,  and  so  hastens  to  light  a cigarette  before  she  has 
even  had  time  to  get  settled  at  her  table  in  a Bohemian 
restaurant,  they  have  subjected  themselves  to  a tyranny 
of  ideas  as  cruel  as  those  of  the  Puritans. 

The  books  which  cover  the  tables  in  The  Purple  Pagan^ 
fresh,  bright,  and  attractive — show  that  the  writers  are 
fearful  that  somebody  may  not  remember  that  “male 
and  female  created  He  them.”  There  has  been  a lapse 
into  forgetfulness  about  sex  on  the  part  of  the  human 
race,  it  appears,  and  something  ought  to  be  published 
on  the  subject.  Here  are  a few  attempts  to  supply  the 
want.  But  they  scream  a little  too  loud.  They  forever 
want  to  tell  somebody  “the  facts  of  life.”  Like  the  old 
lady  who  wakened  her  confessor  at  two  in  the  morning, 
to  confess  her  one  sin,  which  was  committed  fifty  years 
ago,  they  “likes  to  talk  about  it.”  Their  liberalism  is 
a tight  little  doctrine  which  keeps  its  hottest  hatred  for 
liberals  of  other  stripes.  Toward  the  arch-Tories  of  the 
world  they  are  more  than  friendly.  Their  pacifism  ob- 
jects to  the  shedding  of  blood  in  any  formal  manner. 
But  a bomb  tossed  nonchalantly  into  a crowd,  or  the 
shooting  of  unarmed  men  in  the  back — since  these  re- 


THE  CARY  GIRLS 


151 

quire  no  degrading  drill  nor  discipline  on  the  part  of  the 
performer — are  perfectly  tolerable  to  them.  To  keep 
their  own  skins  whole  and  safe  is  their  notion  of  the 
noblest  conduct, — and  they  call  themselves  “idealists” 
forty  times  a day.  Their  novelists  hold  up  the  slacker, 
the  sneak,  and  the  deserter  for  sympathy  and  admiration; 
their  story-tellers  discuss  their  own  bodily  functions  as 
if  they  were  old  grannies  gossiping  in  a sanatorium,  or 
wheezy  clubmen  with  disordered  livers.  And  this  senile 
chatter  is  hailed,  in  The  Purple  Pagan^  as  “the  cry  of 
youth.” 

On  the  whole,  the  worst  thing  about  them  is  their 
complexions.  They  are  as  sallow  as  their  paintings,  as 
puffy  and  muddy  as  their  clay  and  wax  figurines.  Old 
Mr.  Falcon,  with  his  bright  blue  eyes  and  pink  cheeks, 
looks  as  if  he  could  give  Morris  ten  yards  in  a hundred 
yard  dash.  Morris,  I believe,  claimed  exemption  in  1918, 
not  because  he  objected  to  putting  bullets  into  other  men, 
nor  was  afraid  some  other  man  might  put  a bullet  into 
him.  But  the  thought  of  being  made  to  get  up  early  and 
take  some  exercise  revolted  his  proud  soul.  His  per- 
sonal freedom  to  remain  a little  greasy  looking  was  in 
danger.  An  hour’s  drill  and  a shower-bath  would 
brighten  his  views  on  politics,  art,  and  literature.  But 
he  would  denounce  me  as  a militarist  and  a slave  to 
capitalism  if  I told  him  so.  And  he  would  smile  a sad, 
greenish  smile  to  show  what  he  thinks  of  the  mental 
equipment  of  cheerful  persons. 

As  for  the  comparative  liberality  of  their  literary 
notions — I suppose  it  must  be  admitted  that  The  Purple 
Pagan  is  much  narrower  than  Miss  Cary.  They  both 


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152 

have  their  crotchets.  Miss  Cary  disapproved  of  “Peck’s 
Bad  Boy”  for  persons  of  my  age,  and  so  inspired  me 
with  an  unholy  desire  to  read  it.  She  did  or  she  did  not — 
I really  cannot  remember — keep  solely  for  her  older 
readers  a little  book  by  Grant  Allen,  called  “The  Woman 
Who  Did,”  which  (laughable  to  recall)  was  then  sold, 
after  whispered  conversations  and  with  a great  show  of 
secrecy,  by  newsboys  on  the  trains.  Today  it  sits  neg- 
lected on  the  book-shelves,  middle-aged,  obscure,  and 
only  occasionally  sought  for  its  Aubrey  Beardsley  title- 
page. 

The  Purple  Pagan  is  still  devoted  to  the  theory  that  to 
be  in  trouble  with  the  police  is  the  sign  of  the  artist. 
The  proprietor  of  that  gaudy  shop  always  patronizes 
Poe,  not  on  account  of  his  poetry,  for  that  is  diametrically 
opposed  to  all  the  Pagan’s  ideas  of  verse-making,  but 
because  of  his  enjoyment  of  the  belief  that  Poe  was  a 
drunkard.  Nothing  could  be  more  amusing  than  to  have 
Poe  come  back,  sit  at  his  editorial  desk  for  a week,  and 
release  the  torrent  of  his  critical  rage  upon  the  vers  Ubrists 
and  others  of  their  stripe. 

Miss  Cary  first  brought  to  my  notice  the  fact  that  the 
current  Lippincott's  Magazine  had  in  it  a yarn  of  a new 
and  admirable  detective  who  dosed  himself  with  cocaine 
and  owned  a friend  named  Watson.  At  about  that  time 
there  appeared  in  the  same  magazine  a weird  story, 
slightly  sweet,  slightly  sickish,  called  “The  Picture  of 
Dorian  Gray.”  Miss  Cary  said  that  the  author  was  a 
donkey,  but  that  he  could  write.  She  lent  me  a novel 
called  “Tess  of  the  d’Urbervilles,”  but  at  that  time  it 
seemed  to  me  to  have  “too  much  scenery”  in  it.  Aside 


THE  CARY  GIRLS 


153 

from  a murder  and  a hanging  there  was  little  to  attract 
me.  Miss  Cary  had  not  yet  heard — and  neither  had  any 
one  of  us — of  an  Irish  critic  named  Shaw;  perhaps  a 
curious,  thin  book  named  “The  Time  Machine,”  by 
H.  G.  Wells,  had  come  to  her  library.  If  so,  knowing 
my  tastes,  she  certainly  passed  it  on  to  me.  Mark  Twain 
had  just  published  a book — with  delightful  illustrations 
— which  I enjoyed  then  as  I have  never  been  able  to 
enjoy  it  since.  It  was  “The  Connecticut  Yankee.”  Miss 
Cary  talked  less  about  liberalism  but  believed  in  it  rather 
more  than  the  Purple  man  does.  She  allowed  authors 
freedom  in  choice  of  subject;  he  would  pin  them  down 
to  a pretty  narrow  range.  The  themes  of  both  “Othello” 
and  “Macbeth”  were  great  themes  in  her  opinion;  The 
Purple  Pagan  would  vote  for  “Othello”  and  despise  the 
theme  of  “Macbeth.”  She  cared  not  at  all  about  the 
politics  of  a novelist  or  a poet,  but  he  would  insist  that 
even  the  writer  of  nursery  rhymes  must  believe  in  Com- 
munism, or  whatever  cure-all  he  happened  to  favor  at  the 
moment.  If  Miss  Cary  were  Czar,  I think  it  would  be 
an  easy  sort  of  tyranny,  but  one  has  only  to  look  at  the 
fanatic’s  eyes  of  The  Purple  Pagan  to  know  that  his 
firing-squads  would  never  stop  until  they  had  cleared  the 
earth  of  all  who  did  not  share  his  beliefs,  down  to  his 
last  economic  or  artistic  dogma. 


AN  AMERICAN  ECCENTRIC 


I 


CHAPTER  X 

AN  AMERICAN  ECCENTRIC 

Many  of  the  “English  Eccentrics”  in  John  Timbs’ 
book  of  that  name,  were  residents  of  London,  or 
were  directly  connected  with  that  city.  The  absence  of 
any  city  in  America,  at  once  the  capital  and  the  metrop- 
olis, may  have  done  something  to  prevent  that  kind  of 
notoriety  which  is  essential  to  the  discovery  of  a genuine 
“eccentric.”  The  person  who  is  actually  distinguished 
for  any  reason,  but  who  happens  to  possess  certain  curious 
traits  or  habits,  the  man  about  whom  a few  anecdotes 
are  related,  is  not  correctly  called  an  eccentric.  Indeed, 
genuine  fame,  resting  upon  achievement,  takes  its  owner 
out  of  this  odd  class.  Nor  is  the  peculiar  man  or  woman, 
of  purely  local  celebrity,  who  has  always  existed  in  every 
city,  town,  and  village,  an  eccentric  within  the  meaning 
of  the  term.  His  oddities  must  be  his  chief  claim  to 
attention,  and  he  must  be  known,  more  or  less,  through- 
out the  nation. 

It  is  hard  indeed,  to  name  a parallel  to  a strange  per- 
sonage who  flourished  in  Massachusetts  in  the  first  years 
of  the  republic.  He  was  an  early,  and,  to  his  neighbors, 
rather  objectionable  example  of  the  newly  rich,  and  of 
the  innumerable  legends  which  clustered  about  his  name, 
four  or  five  became  celebrated  all  over  the  country.  At 
least  two  of  these  were  indisputable,  while  some  of  the 

others  are  apparently  founded  upon  reliable  tradition. 

157 


BOOKS  IN  BI^CK  OR  RED 


158 

Some  of  them  still  linger  in  the  memory  of  local  his- 
torians, and  one  at  least,  was  once  widely  known  among 
bibliographers,  printers,  and  collectors  of  curious  Ameri- 
cana. Timothy  Dexter’s  assumption  of  the  title  of 
“Lord,”  his  house  with  its  wooden  statues,  his  alleged 
success  in  strange  speculations — especially  in  the  ship- 
ment of  warming-pans  to  the  West  Indies — and  finally 
his  pamphlet,  “A  Pickle  for  the  Knowing  Ones,”  with  its 
famous  addendum  in  the  later  editions,  gave  him  the 
stature  of  a full-sized  eccentric,  no  less  interesting  than 
any  of  those  in  John  Timbs’  work. 

Timothy  Dexter — the  name  is  admirably  suited — was 
born  in  Malden,  Massachusetts,  January  22,  1747-48, 
and  came  to  Newburyport  in  1769.  In  this  town  Dexter 
lived  nearly  all  the  rest  of  his  life;  he  died  in  1806.  It 
was  one  of  the  important  sea-ports  of  the  United  States. 
Samuel  Eliot  Morison  writes,  in  “The  Maritime  History 
of  Massachusetts”: 

Newburyport  specialized  in  the  Labrador  and  Bay  fish- 
eries, in  which  sixty  vessels  were  engaged  in  1806.  Her 
other  hundred  and  sixteen  vessels  were  employed  in  coast- 
ing, West  Indian  and  European  trade — of  which  more  anon. 
Newburyport  was  also  noted  for  rum  and  whiskey  distil- 
leries, for  Laird’s  ale  and  porter,  and  for  goldsmiths ; Jacob 
Perkins  having  discovered  a cheap  method  of  making  gold- 
plated  beads,  which  were  then  in  fashion.  Even  after  the 
war-time  depression  there  were  ten  jewelers’  and  watch- 
makers’ shops  at  Newburyport.  Here  were  printed  and 
published  the  numerous  editions  of  Bowditch’s  “Navigator,” 
and  Captain  Furlong’s  “American  Coast  Pilot.”  * 

*The  “great  fire”  of  i8ii  destroyed  250  buildings,  including  four 
printing  offices,  four  book-shops  (in  one  of  which  the  loss  was  $30,000) 
and  the  town  library. — ^E.  L.  P. 


AN  AxMERICAN  ECCENTRIC  159 

Newburyport  boasted  a society  inferior  to  that  of  no  other 
town  on  the  continent.  Most  of  the  leading  families  were 
but  one  generation  removed  from  the  plough  or  the  fore- 
castle; but  they  had  acquired  wealth  before  the  Revolution, 
and  conducted  social  matters  with  the  grace  and  dignity  of 
an  old  regime.  When  Governor  Gore,  in  1809,  made  a state 
visit  to  Newburyport,  where  he  had  once  studied  law,  he 
came  in  coach  and  four  with  outriders,  uniformed  aides,  and 
a cavalry  escort;  and  when  the  town  fathers  informed  his 
ancient  benefactress,  Madame  Atkins,  that  His  Excellency 
would  honor  her  with  a call,  the  spokesman  delivered  his 
message  on  his  knees  at  the  good  lady’s  feet.  We  read  of 
weekly  balls  and  routs,  of  wedding  coaches  drawn  by  six 
white  horses  with  liveried  footmen,  in  this  town  of  less 
than  eight  thousand  inhabitants.  When  personal  property 
was  assessed,  several  Newburyport  merchants  reported  from 
one  thousand  to  twelve  hundred  gallons  of  wine  in  their 
cellars. 

Federalist  architecture  has  here  left  perhaps  her  finest 
permanent  trace.  High  Street,  winding  along  a ridge  com- 
manding the  Merrimack,  rivals  Chestnut  Street  of  Salem, 
despite  hideous  interpolations  of  the  late  Nineteenth  Century. 
The  gambrel-roofed  type  lasted  into  the  seventeen-nineties, 
when  the  Newburyport  merchants  began  to  build  square, 
three-storied,  hip-roofed  houses  of  brick,  surrounded  with 
ample  grounds,  gardens  and  “housins.”  The  ship  carpen- 
ters who  (if  tradition  is  correct)  designed  and  built  these 
houses,  adopted  neither  the  graceful  porches  nor  the  applied 
Adam  detail  of  Meintire ; but  their  tooled  mouldings  on 
panel,  cornice,  and  chimneypiece  have  a graceful  and  orig- 
inal vigor. 

Dexter  seems  alternately  to  have  amused  and  annoyed 
the  people  of  the  town  in  which  he  rose  to  notoriety.  His 
business  was  that  of  leather-dresser,  and  dealer  in  hides; 
his  social  position  was  humble.  As  early  as  1776,  and 
possibly  as  a joke,  he  was  elected  “Informer”  by  the  legal 
voters.  The  duties  of  this  office  concerned  the  enforce- 


i6o  BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 

merit  of  the  law  in  regard  to  killing  deer, — probably  it 
was  not  a post  that  entailed  much  labor.  Curiously 
enough,  the  game  laws  of  Massachusetts  were  so  success- 
ful in  protecting  deer  that  a century  after  the  death  of 
Timothy  Dexter  the  appearance  of  wild  deer  within  the 
city  limits  of  Newburyport  was  not  infrequent,  and  the 
State  Legislature  made  an  annual  appropriation  for  the 
benefit  of  farmers  in  various  parts  of  the  State,  whose 
crops  and  trees  were  injured  by  these  protected  animals. 

At  the  end  of  the  Revolutionary  War,  Dexter  made 
a profitable  investment  in  the  depreciated  currency,  which 
was  afterward  redeemed  at  par  by  the  government.  This 
was  probably  the  foundation  of  his  fortune.  For  about 
five  years,  beginning  in  1791,  he  owned  and  lived  in 
what  was  known  as  the  Tracy  mansion.  It  is  now  occu- 
pied by  the  public  library.  He  began  to  take  himself 
seriously  as  a “merchant  prince,”  as  a local  oracle,  and 
as  a host.  His  habits  with  wine  and  spirits  were  expan- 
sive, even  for  that  period,  although  he  always  made  it 
a point  to  be  sober  in  the  morning,  for  the  transaction 
of  business.  His  lack  of  settled  or  orthodox  religious 
views  offended  a church-going  community,  and  it  is  prob- 
able that  his  followers  and  associates  were  gay  young 
men,  and  semi-reputable  citizens  who  w’ere  willing  to 
flatter  him,  to  drink  his  wines,  eat  his  dinners,  and  laugh 
at  his  peculiarities.  He  made  a number  of  offers  of  public 
benefactions;  he  gave  money  to  one  of  the  churches  and 
a bell,  which  bears  his  name,  to  another  of  them. 

The  story  runs  that  one  of  the  deacons  of  this  church 
gave  a number  of  silver  dollars  to  be  cast  with  the  bell, 
and  insure  its  silvery  tone.  I am  afraid  something  hap- 


AN  AMERICAN  ECCENTRIC 


i6i 


pened  to  those  dollars;  too  many  times  I have  had  my 
melancholy  increased  on  hot  Sunday  afternoons  and 
evenings  by  the  jangling  of  this  bell  to  think  of  it  as 
silvery.  Curiously  enough,  though,  it  seemed  to  me  to 
make  a joyful  noise  when  I used  to  be  allowed  to  help 
ring  it  on  February  22nd  and  July  4th. 

Dexter  offered  to  pave  the  principal  street,  if  it  should 
be  renamed  in  his  honor,  and  to  build  for  the  town  a 
market-house.  The  town  disliked  to  accept  him  as  a 
benefactor,  and  declined  with  thanks.  Miffed  at  this 
slight,  he  moved  to  Chester,  New  Hampshire,  where  he 
lived  for  two  years. 

In  1798,  however,  he  returned  to  Newburyport  and 
bought  the  large,  three-story  house  on  High  Street,  which 
was  to  be  known  as  the  Dexter  House  from  that  time  to 
the  present.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  mentions  it  in 
“Elsie  Venner.”  His  decorations  made  it  grotesque,  but 
now  they  are  removed,  the  house  remains  as  one  of  the 
best  types  of  the  Georgian  or  so-called  “Colonial”  do- 
mestic architecture,  rivalling  Lowell’s  home  at  Elmwood, 
and  the  Craigie-Longfellow  house  in  Cambridge. 

Dexter’s  family  life  was  unhappy,  and  in  a few  months 
he  was  advertising  the  house  for  sale  in  the  following 
words : 

To  be  Sold 

That  elegant  Mansion  House  situate  in  Newbury  Port, 
owned  by  the  subscriber,  together  with  about  Nine  Acres  of 
Land  adjoining,  with  the  Out  Houses,  Stores,  Stables,  etc. 
The  House  has  a new  Cupola,  with  a spread  eagle  on  the 
top,  which  turns  with  the  wind ; finished  in  an  elegant  man- 
ner, and  perhaps  makes  as  good  an  appearance  as  any  Seat 
in  the  United  States.  There  are  in  the  garden  about  150 


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BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


Fruit  Trees,  which  produce  a great  plenty  of  fruit,  and  good 
Well  of  Water. 

In  one  of  the  banks  of  the  Garden  is  an  elegent  new 
Tomb,  on  the  top  of  which  is  erected  the  Temple  of  Reason, 

12  feet  square,  ii  feet  high,  with  158  squares  of  glass  in  it. 
Likewise. 

All  my  Household  Furniture  and  Plate,  which  is  equal  to 
the  House.  Also  my  Coach  Horses  and  Carriages ; payment 
made  easy ; one-third  down  the  other  in  three  years,  with 
interest  and  good  security.  Any  gentleman  wishing  to  pur- 
chase the  above  may  hear  of  the  terms  by  applying  to  the 
subscriber,  living  on  the  premises. 

Timothy  Dexter.* 

Who  built  the  “elegent  new  Tomb”?  It  sounds  like 
Dexter;  he  afterwards  wished  to  be  buried  in  it.  But 
he  must  have  worked  rapidly ; he  bought  the  house  August 
15,  1798,  and  here  he  is  advertising  it  for  sale  on  the 
following  January  2nd,  tomb  and  all,  complete.  The 
previous  owner  had  been  a highly  respectable  sea-captain 
and  privateer,  Thomas  Thomas;  he  seems  an  unlikely 
person  to  build  a tomb  with  a “Temple  of  Reason”  on 
top,  especially  since  he  was  a vestryman  of  St.  Paul’s 
Church!  The  house  had  been  built  more  than  twenty 
years  earlier  by  Jonathan  Jackson,  also  a worthy  citizen, 
a member  of  the  Continental  Congress. 

But  Dexter  never  made  the  sale;  he  lived  in  the  house 
until  his  death,  seven  years  later.  His  thoughts  turning 
upon  the  end  of  this  mortal  life,  he  celebrated  a mock- 
funeral  for  himself.  Some  hundreds  of  curious  persons 
attended, — Dexter  wrote:  “it  was  a solemn  day,  there 
was  much  Cring  [crying]  about  three  thousand  specta- 
tors.” The  tradition  is  that  Dexter  watched  the  funeral 

* Columbian  Centinel  (Boston),  January  2,  1799. 


AN  AMERICAN  ECCENTRIC  163 

from  an  upper  window,  and  afterwards  beat  his  wife 
because  she  did  not  shed  enough  tears. 

In  1801  he  contracted  (driving  a hard  bargain),  with 
Joseph  Wilson,  a young  ship-carver,  for  the  wooden 
statues,  painted  in  bright  colors,  which  he  placed  on 
pillars  and  arches  in  front  of  his  house.  In  the  local 
newspaper  Dexter  gave  a preliminary  list  of  these 
statues : 

The  3 presidents,  Doctor  franklin,  John  hen  Cock,  and 
Mr  Hamilton  and  Rouffous  King  and  John  Jea,  and  2 
grane-dears  on  the  top  of  the  hous,  4 Lions  below,  1 Eagel, 
is  on  the  Coupulow,  one  Lamb  to  lay  down  with  one  of  the 
Lions, — One  Yonnecorne,  one  Dogg,  Addam  and  Eave  in 
the  garden, — one  horse.  The  houll  [whole]  is  not  concluded 
on  as  yet. 

In  1802  appeared  his  pamphlet  “A  Pickle  for  the 
Knowing  Ones.”  He  had  already  been  called  “Lord” 
Timothy  Dexter,  and  had  included  himself  in  the  statues 
in  front  of  his  house,  with  the  inscription  “I  am  the  first 
in  the  East,  the  first  in  the  West,  and  the  greatest  phi- 
losopher in  the  known  world.”  Jonathan  Plummer  was 
appointed  his  poet  laureate,  and  rewarded  with  a small 
salary,  a suit  of  livery,  a large  cocked-hat,  and  gold- 
headed cane.  These  are  the  opening  stanzas  of  one  of 
the  laureate’s  odes,  certainly  better  verses  than  one 
usually  expects  from  an  eccentric  poet  in  a small 
town: 

To  Sir  Timothy  Dexter,  on  his  returning  to  Newbury- 
port,  after  residing  a long  time  at  Chester  in  New  Hamp- 
shire, a congratulatory  Ode:  by  Jonathan  Plummer,  Junr., 
Poet  Lauriet  to  his  Lordship. 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


164 

Your  Lordship’s  welcome  back  again — 

Fair  nymphs  with  sighs  have  mourn’d  your  staying 
So  long  from  them  and  me  your  swain, 

And  wonder’d  at  such  long  delaying; 

But  now  you  bless  again  our  eyes, 

Our  melting  sorrow  droops  and  dies. 

The  town  of  Chester  to  a Lord 

Must  seem  a desert  dull  and  foggy, 

A gloomy  place — upon  my  word 
I think  it  dirty,  wet  and  boggy: 

Far  different  from  your  Kingly  seat,* 

In  good  saint  James  his  famous  street. 

In  1805  James  Akin  engraved  and  published  a por- 
trait of  Dexter,  reproduced  with  this  chapter.  The  dog, 
which  seems  to  have  amazed  all  who  have  commented 
upon  Dexter,  combining  as  he  did  the  engaging  qualities 
of  the  pig,  the  dachshund,  and  the  bat,  is  always  de- 
scribed as  “hairless”  and  “peculiar.”  Probably  he  was 
a Mexican  hairless  dog. 

The  notice  of  Timothy  Dexter’s  death,  from  the  Nevj- 
buryport  Herald,  was  as  follows : 

Departed  this  life,  on  Wednesday  evening  last  (October 
22,  1806)  Mr.  Timothy  Dexter,  in  the  60th  year  of  his 
age, — self-styled  “Lord  Dexter,  first  in  the  East.”  He  lived 
perhaps  one  of  the  most  eccentric  men  of  his  time.  His 
singularities  and  peculiar  notions  were  universally  pro- 
verbial. Born  and  bred  in  a low  condition  in  life,  and  his 
intellectual  endowments  not  being  of  the  most  exalted  stamp, 
it  is  no  wonder  that  a splendid  fortune,  which  he  acquired 
(though  perhaps  honestly)  by  dint  of  speculation  and  good 
fortune,  should  have  rendered  him,  in  many  respects,  truly 

•Kingly  seat — ^The  elegant  house  in  saint  James  his  park  and  street, 
which  belonged  sometime  since  to  Jonathan  Jackson,  Esq. — Plummer’s 
note. 


W. 


'//fi'if  /--  I — 

y>h,Kt  a Jtfucf  cf  \*v7’k  ijr  Mali  * 

bow  noblf  }ra.vn  / bo*v  m forulttet'  j;i  fomn  >iC  rrumru/  how  k'admuaU$i^ 

l^ntTri-vi  •rcofttti)^  t/>  mi  ci  Oonjfi«rf»  Aoirl'*  l‘5(»,3  l>y  lai)K*»  Ak<*i  Nt*u  lnir^^)rl  Mill** 


AN  AMERICAN  ECCENTRIC  165 

ridiculous.  The  qualities  of  his  mind  were  of  that  indefinite 
cast  which  forms  an  exception  to  every  other  character  re- 
corded in  history,  or  known  in  the  present  age,  and  “none 
but  himself  could  be  his  parallel,”  But  among  the  motley 
groups  of  his  qualities,  it  would  be  injustice  to  say  he  pos- 
sessed no  good  ones — he  certainly  did.  No  one  will  impeach 
his  honesty,  and  his  numerous  acts  of  liberality,  both  public 
and  private,  are  in  the  recollection  of  all,  while  one  of  the 
items  in  his  last  Will  will  be  gratefully  remembered.  His 
ruling  passion  appeared  to  be  popularity,  and  one  would  sup- 
pose he  rather  chose  to  render  his  name  “infamously  famous 
than  not  famous  at  all.”  His  writings  stand  as  a monument 
of  the  truth  of  this  remark;  for  those  who  have  read  his 
“Pickle  for  the  Knowing  Ones,”  a jumble  of  letters  promis- 
cuously gathered  together,  find  it  difficult  to  determine 
whether  most  to  laugh  at  the  consummate  folly,  or  despise 
the  vulgarity  and  profanity  of  the  writer.  His  manner  of 
life  was  equally  extravagant  and  singular.  A few  years 
since  he  erected  in  front  of  his  house  a great  number  of 
images  of  distinguished  persons  in  Europe  and  America,  to- 
gether with  beasts,  etc.,  so  that  his  seat  exhibited  more  the 
appearance  of  a museum  of  artificial  curiosities  than  the 
dwelling  of  a family.  By  his  orders  a tomb  was  several 
years  since  dug  under  the  summer  house  in  his  garden, 
where  he  desired  his  remains  might  be  deposited  (but  this 
singular  request  could  not  consistently  be  complied  with), 
and  his  coffin  made  and  kept  in  the  hall  of  his  house,  in 
which  he  is  to  be  buried.  The  fortunate  and  singular  man- 
ner of  his  speculations,  by  which  he  became  possessed  of  a 
handsome  property,  are  well  known,  and  his  selling  a cargo 
of  warming-pans  to  the  W.  Indies,  where  they  were  converted 
into  molasses-ladles  and  sold  to  a good  profit,  is  but  one  of 
the  most  peculiar.  His  principles  of  religion  (if  they  could  be 
called  principles)  were  equally  odd : a blind  philosophy 
peculiar  to  himself  led  him  to  believe  in  the  system  of  trans- 
migration at  some  times ; at  others  he  expressed  those  closely 
connected  with  deism;  but  it  is  not  a matter  of  surprise  that 
one  so  totally  illiterate  should  have  no  settled  or  rational 
principles.  His  reason  left  him  two  days  before  his  death. 


i66 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


but  he  has  gone  to  render  an  account  of  his  life  to  a just 
and  merciful  judge. 

The  funeral  of  Mr.  Dexter  will  be  to-morrow,  at  3 o’clock, 
from  his  dwelling  house. 

This  not  too  flattering  tribute  (in  which,  by  the  way, 
Dexter  is  named  as  the  tomb  builder)  sounds  as  if  it 
were  written  by  some  local  clergyman.  Dexter  had  quar- 
reled with  one  of  them  and  perhaps  given  cause  for 
offence.  He  also  criticized,  justly  enough,  their  tendency 
to  quarrel  with  one  another.  The  doubt  expressed  in 
this  obituary  notice  of  the  final  destination  of  Dexter’s 
soul  was  not  repeated  in  the  funeral  oration  by  his  poet 
laureate.  Poor,  eccentric  Jonathan  Plummer  published 
in  the  same  year,  a broadside,  called  “Something  New.” 
It  was  a miscellany  of  information  about  Dexter,  ending 
with  a sermon  in  which  he  expressed  a belief  that  his 
patron’s  charity  (one  of  Dexter’s  benevolences  was  a 
bequest  of  $2000  for  the  poor  of  the  town,  the  first  be- 
quest of  the  kind  in  Newburyport)  would  help  blot  out 
his  faults,  and  that  he  would  ultimately  rest  in  “the 
glorious  company  of  Abraham,  Isaac  and  Jacob.”  The 
imagination  balks  at  the  picture  of  Timothy  Dexter 
making  one  of  this  partie  carree^  but  Plummer’s  theology 
is  perhaps  as  good  as  that  of  the  pedant  who  prepared 
the  notice  for  the  Newburyport  Herald. 

The  total  value  of  Dexter’s  estate  was  about  $35,000, 
no  mean  sum  in  1806,  even  in  a town  whose  size  and 
importance  in  the  United  States  at  that  time  was  equal 
to  that  of  Baltimore  or  San  Francisco  today.  His  last 
will  and  testament  was  wise  and  philanthropic — so  that 
it  could  be  truthfully  said  on  his  grave-stone  in  the  bury- 


By  permission  Dazid  McKay  Co. 

The  Dexter  House  about  1805 

(From  an  illustration  by  James  Preston  in  Paul  M.  Hollister’s  “Famous  Colonial  Houses’ 


AN  AMERICAN  ECCENTRIC  167 

ing-ground  (after  the  board  of  health  refused  to  allow 
his  burial  on  his  own  estate) : 

He  gave  liberal  Donations 
For  the  support  of  the  Gospel : 

For  the  benefit  of  the  Poor, 

And  for  other  benevolent  purposes. 

In  regard  to  the  speculation  in  warming-pans,  Dexter, 
in  the  second  edition  of  his  “Pickle”  (1805)  begins  one 
paragraph  with  the  words,  “How  Did  Dexter  make  his 
money.  . . .”  He  names  three  speculations,  one  in 
whalebone,  one  in  Bibles  (called  alternately  “the  bibbel” 
and  the  “bibel”)  and  one  in  warming-pans.  Of  the  last 
he  writes  merely  this: 

. . . one  more  fpect  Drole  A Nouf  I Dreamed  of  worm- 
ing pans  three  Nits  that  they  would  doue  in  the  weft  inges 
I got  not  more  than  fortey  two  thoufand  put  them  in  Nine 
ve/fels  for  difrent  ports  that  tuck  good  hold — I cleared 
sevinty  nine  per  sent — the  pans  thay  mad  yous  of  them  for 
Coucking  . . . 

The  usual  story  is  that  the  warming-pans  were  em- 
ployed for  ladling  molasses — their  natural  use  being 
superfluous  in  the  “west  inges.”  But  the  historical  stu- 
dent has  laid  his  chilling  hand  upon  these  warming-pans. 
William  C.  Todd,  in  a paper  called  “Timothy  Dexter” 
(1886),  expressed  doubts  of  all  these  speculations,  as 
well  as  of  another  apocryphal  tale  of  a shipment  of  a 
cargo  of  mittens  to  the  West  Indies,  which  were  diverted 
to  Russia,  and  sold  there  at  great  profit.  Of  the  most 
celebrated  venture,  Mr.  Todd  writes: 


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BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


His  next  most  noted  speculation  was  in  sending  42,000 
warming-pans  to  the  West  Indies.  No  hard-ware  was  made 
in  this  country  until  a little  more  than  half  a century  ago, 
and  all  the  warming-pans  in  use  came  from  Great  Britain. 
The  amount  named  would  have  cost  about  $150,000,  to  be 
paid  for  in  hard  money,  as  bills  of  exchange  were  then  but 
little  used.  Such  an  importation  and  exportation  would 
have  required  months  of  time,  and  would  have  made  a sen- 
sation indeed,  for,  though  common,  a large  part  of  the  fam- 
ilies had  none,  and  they  are  now  rare  as  old  curiosities.  Is 
it  possible,  rating  his  intelligence  very  low,  that,  if  he  had 
attempted  such  a speculation,  he  would  not  have  been  per- 
suaded of  its  folly  long  before  he  could  have  executed  it? 
Except  for  the  purpose  for  which  they  were  made,  they  are 
of  no  value.  Dexter  says  they  were  sold  in  the  West  Indies 
as  cooking  utensils,  but  a glance  shows  how  inconvenient 
they  would  be  for  such  use.  The  tradition  is  that  they  were 
sold  to  dip  and  strain  molasses,  but  they  are  poorly  adapted 
to  this,  and  nearly  a century  ago,  when  sugar  plantations 
were  few  in  the  West  Indies,  but  a small  part  of  42,000 
would  have  satisfied  any  such  demand.  Did  any  visitor  to 
the  West  Indies  ever  see  or  hear  of  one  of  these  42,000 
warming-pans  ? 

Of  the  editions  and  reprints  of  Dexter’s  “A  Pickle  for 
the  Knowing  Ones”  I have  seen  nine;  it  is  not  unlikely 
that  there  were  others.  The  first  edition  (1802)  is  a 
small  pamphlet,  about  four  by  six  inches,  with  24  pages. 
Its  title-page  and  two  other  pages  are  reproduced  here. 
The  author  describes  the  statues  which  he  was  placing 
in  front  of  his  house,  and  his  own  tribulations — such  as 
receiving  “hard  Noks  on  my  head  4 difrent  times  from 
a Boy  to  this  Day.”  He  makes  his  announcement:  “Ime 
the  first  Lord  in  the  younited  States  of  Amercary  Now 
of  Newburyport  it  is  the  voise  of  the  peopel  and  I cant 
Help  it.  . . .”  He  discusses  religion  and  local  affairs,  and 


#'  *•> . 

A 


f ‘ 

. • 

PICKLE 

e 

rOR  THE 

K N 0‘W  I N G ONES: 

i > 

t 

0 R 

i 

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PLAIN  TRUTHS 

• 

IN  A 

l’ 

t 

HOMESPUN  DRESS.  , 

f 

1 

By  timothy  DEXTER,  Es^. 

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( 

4 


SALEM: 

PRINTED  FOR  THE  AUTHOR. 
i8oa, 


• ^ 
* i 


First  Edition 


AN  AMERICAN  ECCENTRIC  169 

ends,  “The  follering  peases  are  not  my  Riting  but  very 
drole,” — which  serves  as  an  introduction  to  a brief 
anecdote  about  Indians,  and  to  a sermon  by  an  English 
clergyman  on  the  subject  of  robbery,  a topic  upon  which 
Dexterj  as  a man  of  property  and  owner  of  an  orchard, 
was  especially  sensitive.  Dexter’s  language,  in  a few 
passages  of  this  edition,  is  gross,  and  these  passages  are 
repeated  in  the  second  edition  (1805)  published  in  his 
life-time.  In  one  of  the  later  editions  (1838)  the  editor 
has  protected  his  readers  from  contamination  by  the 
device  of  asterisks. 

In  1805  there  were  printed  two  more  editions,  differ- 
ing from  each  other,  and  both  of  them  larger  than  the 
first  edition.  Both  are  called,  on  their  title-pages,  the 
second  edition.  One  was  printed  in  Newburyport;  the 
other  probably  in  Salem.  The  author  frequently  ad- 
dresses “mister  printer,”  but  nowhere  in  the  copies  which 
I have  been  able  to  trace  (in  five  different  libraries)  is 
there  the  famous  note  about  punctuation, — Dexter’s  one 
great  contribution  to  eccentric  literature.  This  note  has 
been  attributed  almost  invariably  to  the  second  edition  of 
the  “Pickle,”  but  a considerable  search  and  inquiry  has 
failed  to  discover  it  in  print  earlier  than  1838,  or  thirty- 
two  years  after  Dexter  had  died. 

The  next  edition,  which  I have  found,  is  this  one  of 
1838.  It  has  forty-two  pages,  with  an  introductory  essay 
“on  His  Life  and  Genius”  and  explanatory  notes  by 
“Peter  Quince.”  I wish  I knew  who  this  Peter  Quince 
might  be.  He  has  been  confused  with  Isaac  Story,  Jr., 
who  had  previously  used  the  same  pseudonym,  but  died 
in  1803.  This  edition  was  printed  and  published  in 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


170 

I 

Boston,  and  has  a colored  wrapper  with  a quaint  picture 
of  Dexter  and  his  dog,  derived  from  Akin’s  engraving. 
On  page  42  occurs  the  celebrated  note,  definitely  stated 
to  be  from  the  second  edition: 

[Note  to  Dexter’s  Second  Edition] 

fourder  mister  printer  the  Nowing  ones  complane  of  my  book 
the  fust  edition  had  no  stops  I put  in  A nuf  here  and  they 
may  peper  and  solt  it  as  they  please 

>>>>>>>>»>>>>>>>>>>>>>>»>>>>>>>»>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 

yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy 


I ! I ! j I ! I I ! j I ! ! ! 1 [ 

! 1 ! ! ! ! ! I ! 1 ! j 1 

I I ! ! I ! ! ! I 

! 

yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyytf 
??????????????? 

This  Peter  Quince  edition  had  perhaps  been  suggested 
by  a life  of  Dexter  which  had  appeared  in  the  same  year. 
Samuel  L.  Knapp  (who  had  written  many  biographical 
and  other  works)  published  his  “Life  of  Timothy  Dex- 
ter” in  the  year  of  his  own  death,  1838.  He  was  able 
to  include  personal  recollections  of  the  man.  He  said 
that  the  “Pickle”  was  then  out  of  print  and  even  after 
“most  diligent  search,”  he  could  not  get  a copy.  He 
does  not  discriminate  between  editions,  nor  even  say  that 
there  ever  was  a second,  but  speaking  of  the  punctua- 
tion marks,  says  that  Dexter  “put  them  all  in  the  last 


fUte  the  king  of  grat  britton  rcifter  pill  I>oufus  king 
Cro$  over  lo  france  Loue*  the  i6ana  then- the  grate 
bonnepaitey  the  grate  and  there  fegnetoure  Crow  bid-  . * 
dey— -1  Command  pea(e  and  the  grated  brotherly  Love 
■nd  Not  fade  be  Linked  to  gether  with  that  bed  of 
troue  Love  lo  as  to  govern  all  nafions  on  the  fals  of 
the  gloub  not  to  liranize  over  them  but  to  put  them  ' 
to  order  if  any  Defpout  diall  A Rife  as  to  boundreys 
or  Any  maturs  of  Importence  it  is  Left  france  and 
grat  britton  and  Amacarey  to  be  feiteled  A Congrels 
to  be  allwavs  in  france  all  Defpouts  is  to  be  lhare  let* 
teled  and  this  may  be  Dan  this  will  ^lleis  p>ower  and  ^ V 
then  all  wars  Dun  A way  there-for^l  have  the  Lam  . 
to  Lay  Dow  with  the  Lion  Now  this  may  be  Dun  if 
thos  three  powers  would  A geray  to  Lay  w!ut  is  call*  ^ ; 
ed  Devel  one  fide  and  Not  C arry  the  gentelman  pack  ' * | 
hors  Any  longer  but  (hake  him  of  as  dud  on  your 
feet  and  Laff  at  him  ; tliere  is  grate  noife  Aboute  a 
toue  Leged  Creter  he  lays  I am  going  to  fet  fade  black 
Divel  there,  flop  he  would  fcare  the  womans  k)  there 
would  be  No  youfe  for  the  bilding,  I fhould  ha»re  to 
£ reci  fura  Noue  won,  Now  I dop  hear,  I puls  the  > 
Devil  Long  with  the  bull  for  he  is  a bulling  2 l egci  ’ ^ 
Annemal  dop  put  him  cnc  fide  Near  Soloman,  Look- 
ing with  Solotnan  to  Ladey  venus  New  dop  wind  up, 
there  is  grat  ods  in  fioute  I will  Let  you  know  the  ^ , 
fckret  houe  you  may  fee  tlic  Devil,  dand  cn  your  "V, 
head  belrre  a Loucking  glafs  and  take  a bibel  in  to 
your  boufum  fad  40  owers  and  lock  in  the  loucking 
glais,  there  is  no  Devil  if  you  do:-.i  lee  the  ouIu  fellow, 
but  i affiiT.  you  will  It- that  old  Devel 
a Unto  you  all  mar.kind  Com  to  my  Imus  to  mock 
and  laeiie  whi  ye  Dsnt  you  Life  be  fore  god  cr  I • 


Dexter  on  International  Peace. 


AN  AMERICAN  ECCENTRIC 


171 


page,  requesting  the  reader  to  place  them  Where  he 
pleased.”  Knapp  also  says  that  the  work  contained  a 
portrait  of  Dexter  and  his  little  dog,  admirable  like- 
nesses. This  reference,  apparently  to  Akin’s  engraving, 
may  indicate  a confused  state  of  Knapp’s  recollections 
of  the  “Pickle,”  or  may  pertain  to  some  vanished  edition. 

The  1847,  Newburyport,  “Revised  Edition”  is  ex- 
purgated, headings  are  introduced,  and  the  text  is  re- 
arranged by  some  editor.  Punctuation  is  also  intro- 
duced (by  the  editor)  in  the  text^  but  there  is  no  adden- 
dum with  punctuation  marks,  and  no  reference  to  any 
such  addition  in  any  other  editions.  The  preface  says 
merely  that  Dexter’s  “style,  manner,  orthography  and 
punctuation  are  entirely  original;  so  far  from  purloining 
his  material.  Lord  Dexter  has  even  spelt  and  pointed  in 
a way  that  no  others  have.”  The  preface  adds  that  “a 
proper  punctuation”  has  been  introduced,  which  detracts 
from  “the  origina^ty  of  the  work,”  but  furnishes  a key 
to  the  sense. 

The  preface  to  the  Newburyport  edition  of  1848  says 
that  the  addendum  covered  a whole  page  of  the  second 
edition,  and  thus  reprints  it,  without  giving  the  sentence 
beginning  “fourder  mister  printer.”  A reprint  at  the 
end  of  the  third  (1858)  edition  of  Knapp’s  biography 
improves  upon  the  version  in  the  Peter  Quince  edition 
by  adding  to  the  marks,  as  they  have  been  copied  earlier 
in  this  chapter,  another  whole  page  of  marks  and  signs: 
asterisks,  daggers,  double  daggers,  brackets,  and  para- 
graph marks, — thus  painting  the  lily  to  death.  The 
pamphlet  has  been  reprinted  a number  of  times  since 
1858.  There  is  a reprint  of  the  1838  edition,  dated 


172 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


Boston,  1881 ; while  the  Historical  Society  of  Old  New- 
bury reprinted  the  same  edition  in  1916.  Between  1881 
and  1916,  there  was  probably  at  least  one  other  reprint. 

Now,  Dexter’s  whimsical  conceit  about  punctuation 
is  the  one  thing  by  which  he  is  known  to  hundreds  of 
book-collectors.  Many  persons  who  do  not  even  recall 
his  name,  have  heard  that  there  was  once  a curious  old 
man  who  wrote  a book,  omitted  all  punctuation,  but  put 
dozens  of  periods  and  commas  on  the  last  page  of  a later 
edition,  and  bade  his  readers  “pepper  and  salt”  the  book 
to  their  own  taste.* 

There  is,  in  Appleton’s  “Cyclopedia  of  American  Biog- 
raphy” (article  Dexter)  a dubious  reference  to  this  sub- 
ject. It  says:  “.  . . he  published  ...  ‘A  Pickle  for  the 
Knowing  Ones’  and  having  been  annoyed  by  the  printers 
about  punctuation,  he  retaliated  by  writing  a pamphlet 
without  a point  of  any  kind,  and  at  the  end  filled  half 
a page  with  points  in  a mass,  inviting  the  readers  to 
‘pepper  the  dish  to  suit  themselves.’  ” 

Two  or  three  seeming  inaccuracies  occur  in  this  sen- 
tence, especially  the  implication  that  there  was  another 
pamphlet  (not  the  “Pickle”),  which  nobody  else  has 
ever  mentioned. 

. No  one  can  become  even  slightly  familiar  with  Dex- 
ter’s peculiarities  without  being  convinced  that  the  note 
about  the  punctuation  marks  probably  originated  with 
him.  It  is  characteristic.  Dexter  is  known  to  have  been 
a persistent  writer  of  letters  to  the  press, — could  this 

•Mrs.  E.  Vale  Smith’s  “History  of  Newburyport”  (1854)  says  that 
Dexter  “had  several  pages  of  punctuation  marks  printed  separately,  and 
bound  with  the  book.” 


I * 


/ 


I.  • 


.'[  '3  1 


rnOM  TMI  MUSKUM  or 

timothy  dexter,  Esft. 

* 

Ime  llic  firft  Lord  in  the  younited  Statet  of  A 
mercary  Now  of  Newburyporl  it  is  the  voife  of 
the  peopel  and  I cant  Help  it  at'O  fo  Let  it  goue  Now 
S5  I mulf  be  Lord  there  will  foler  many  more  Lords 
prittey  lt>une  for  it  Dont  hurt  A Cat  Nor  the  moufe 
Nor  tlie  fon  Nor  the  water  Nor  the  Eare  then 
on  all  is  Eafey  NuW  bons  broaken  all  is  well  ail  in 
Lov-  Now  I be  oin  to  Liv  the  Corner  ftrn  and  the 
kee  Ron  wiifi  grat  Remeiibrencc  of  my  fathei  Jo^rge 
Wafliirtglon  t!io  grati*  hcrow  17  lentreys  pafl  be. ore 
we  foaml  !o  Roo.l  A failu  r to  his  fhildren  and  Now 
gone  t > Red  Now  to  (lioue  my  Lnv-c  to  my  father  arul 
g.iaie  (,3’.ifte!s  I will  ihoue  the  world  one  of  the  grate 
Wondeis  of  the  woCd  in  15  months  if  now  man  mour- 
deis  me  in  Doss  or  out  Djts  loch  A ir.ouicrum  on 
E.irth  will  astncnce  O I.okI  thou  iviiowcft  to  be  troue 
fourder  hear  me  good  L 'rd  I am  A goofing  to  Let  or 
nnldrcn  krow  Now  10  lee  gooil  Lord  what  lus  bin  in 
♦he  wotld  grat  wale  bitk  to  < wr  loic  faiheis  Not  old 
plimeth  hot  Hop  10  Ad«!om  & Eavc  to  fhoue  4^  fib- 
ers tw  * Leged  and  fore  Lrgrtl  b foie  we  Cant  Douc 
wfcl  with  out  foie  Lfgu  III  the  firfl  plale  they  are  our 
louJe  in  the  Next  plale  tomakeoiit  l)cxters  moufeum 
I wants  Liens  to  dtferid  thous  gral  and  miRiy  men 
from  Eill  to  wiR  horn  North  to  South  which  Now 
are  at  the  plates  Rjled  the  Lun  is  Not  R'adey  in  ff.ort 
nieatcr  if  .NgrealHl  1 fcime  A good  anti  pealabel  gov- 
cment  on  mv  Land  in  Newhjts  |s.nt  Compleat  I take 
3 prclctlents  liamflicr  goveiicr  ail  to  None  ymk  and 
ihe  giaie  ciiP.er  John  Jay  is  oue,  that  maks  2 in  that 


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From  First  Edition  of  the  “Pickle 


AN  AMERICAN  ECCENTRIC 


173 

note  have  taken  the  form  of  a newspaper  communication? 
Or  was  it  discussed  by  himself  and  his  associates,  but 
never  printed  until  he  was  dead?  Submitting  these 
questions  to  three  men,  as  learned  in  early  American 
bibliography  as  any  living — Messrs,  Wilberforce  Eames, 
Charles  Evans,  and  George  Parker  Winship — I find  them 
agreed  in  thinking  that  the  note  was  probably  really 
printed  by  his  authority  and  in  his  life-time,  but  in  some 
form  not  easily  discoverable  today.  Mr.  Eames  suggests 
a missing  edition  of  the  “Pickle”;  Mr.  Evans,  a broad- 
side; Mr.  Winship,  a loose  leaf  to  be  inserted  in  the 
pamphlet. 

It  is  always  better  to  establish  the  truth  of  a pleasant 
legend  than  try  to  upset  it.  So  in  the  hope  that  this  may 
be  read  by  someone  who  can  supply  the  answers,  I will 
end  this  chapter  with  three  questions.  Why  did  nearly 
all  of  Dexter’s  biographers  assert  that  the  note,  with  the 
punctuation  marks,  was  in  some  edition  of  the  “Pickle” 
(they  usually  specify  the  second)  published  in  his  life- 
time? (Dexter  has  been  the  subject  of  other  works 
besides  Knapp’s  biography, — articles  in  magazines  and 
contributions  to  the  transactions  of  historical  societies.) 
Is  there  in  existence  any  publication  issued  before  October 
1806,  with  this  note  to  the  printer?  If  not,  does  the  note 
appear  in  print  earlier  than  1838? 


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THE  LOST  FIRST  FOLIO 


4 

j 


CHAPTER  XI 


THE  LOST  FIRST  FOLIO 

The  sudden  death  of  Mr.  Agamemnon  Jackson,  and 
the  story  of  his  aunt’s  First  Folio  Shakespeare,  are 
described  by  permission  of  Mr.  Jackson  himself.  He 
expressed  to  me,  in  writing,  only  three  days  before  his 
tragic  decease,  leave  to  print  the  correspondence,  and  the 
entries  in  his  journal  bearing  on  the  incident.  He  passed 
away  in  a fit,  on  March  yth  last.  His  landlady  found  a 
package  of  papers,  some  of  which  were  addressed  to  me. 
She  forwarded  them,  and  I now  print  the  record,  with 
a few  omissions. 

Mr.  Jackson  did  not  usually  sign  more  than  the  initial 
of  his  first  name.  He  was  not  proud  of  the  heroic  style 
by  which  his  parents  adorned  him.  On  one  occasion, 
when  he  called  upon  me,  I pointed  out  that  there  had 
been  modern  Agamemnons — there  was  one  in  the  “Peter- 
kin  Papers,”  for  instance.  But  it  did  not  impress  Mr. 
Jackson.  I doubt  if  he  ever  read  the  “Peterkin  Papers” — 
but  of  course  I didn’t  say  so.  You  never  ask  a book- 
collector  if  he  has  read  a book.  He  is  supposed  to  have 
read  everything  propria  vigore,  as  Hogan  says.”  If 
you  collect  rare  editions  you  have  found  the  royal  road 
to  learning — or  the  reputation  for  learning.  No  one 
would  be  so  silly  as  to  ask  a man  who  has  just  paid  two 
hundred  dollars  for  an  early  edition  of  Gray  if  he  really 
cares  anything  about  Gray. 

Mr.  Jackson,  then,  was  known  as  A,  Jackson.  He  came 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


178 

into  our  library  every  few  weeks  to  consult  “Book  Prices 
Current”  or  some  of  the  other  auction  records.  He  never 
looked  at  other  books.  But  I am  sorry  I shall  see  him 
no  more.  Let  the  letters  and  the  diary  relate  the  sorrow- 
ful story.  The  first  is  from  his  aunt,  Mrs.  Buxton: 

Raspberry,  Maine. 

Dear  Agamemnon — I have  not  heard  from  you  for  nearly 
two  months,  although  I can’t  find  your  letter,  I think  it 
must  be  at  least  two  months  ago,  for  I was  just  finishing 
the  last  of  two  dozen  jars  of  damsons,  which  I put  up  for 
Mrs.  Fessenden,  who  is  living  with  me  this  winter,  as  she 
likes  damsons,  although  I cannot  say  that  I care  very  much 
for  them  myself,  but  they  do  very  well  for  tea  on  Sundays. 
Your  uncle  never  cared  for  them  either,  he  and  I agreed 
about  that,  as  we  did  about  pop-overs.  Speaking  about  pop- 
overs  reminds  me — I am  very  much  worried  about  my  stock 
in  that  railroad — do  you  think  that  I had  better  sell  it?  We 
had  pop-overs  for  tea — although  as  I say,  I don’t  care  for 
them  myself — the  same  evening  that  Mr.  Huff  was  here, 
you  know  he  is  cashier  of  the  bank,  and  he  said  that  al- 
though he  made  it  a rule  not  to  give  advice  about  such  things 
he  thought  I had  better  keep  the  stock  for  a while  and  see 
what  happened,  though  it  makes  me  nervous  to  read  the 
papers  nowadays,  but  what  do  you  think? 

Mrs.  Fessenden  is  quite  poorly.  She  says  she  remembers 
you  very  well  when  you  came  here  one  summer.  You  could 
not  have  been  more  than  ten  or  twelve,  it  was  the  year 
before  Blaine  was  nominated  I think,  when  old  Deacon 
Bradley  married  his  second  wife,  she  that  was  Hattie 
Trefethen  and  dyed  his  beard  so  as  to  look  young  and  it 
all  turned  bright  green,  there  was  something  the  matter 
with  the  dye,  they  said.  If  you  think  I had  better  sell  them, 
please  let  me  know,  won’t  you. 

With  much  love. 

Aunt  Martha. 

P.S. — There  are  a lot  of  old  books  in  that  box  of  your  uncle’s 
in  the  garret.  Do  you  want  them?  I will  send  them  to 


THE  LOST  FIRST  FOLIO 


179 

you  if  you  do,  for  what  with  papers  and  the  magazines,  I 
don’t  want  any  more  books  than  those  we  have  in  the  book- 
case in  the  parlor  now.  You  remember  what  a great  reader 
your  uncle  was.  And  he  was  executor  of  Dr.  Perley’s 
estate — and  part  of  the  books  came  to  him  by  the  will.  You 
wouldn’t  recall  old  Dr.  Perley — his  wife  was  a perfect  martyr, 

I always  said,  and  kept  everything  going  while  he  was  gali- 
vanting  about  Europe  buying  more  books  than  he  ever  could 
read.  Besides,  Mrs.  Fessenden’s  niece  who  is  a teacher  in 
the  High  School,  brings  home  books  all  the  time  from  the 
library.  So  you  can  have  them  if  you  want  them.  I’ll  get 
old  Dave  Lunt  to  pack  them  up. 

Mr.  Jackson’s  reply,  of  which  he  kept  a copy,  was  as 
follows: 

Dear  Aunt  Martha — I was  glad  to  hear  from  you,  and  I 
hope  that  your  health  is  still  good.  It  would  be  very  unwise, 
from  all  that  I hear,  for  you  to  sell  that  stock.  In  order  to 
be  sure,  however,  I will  ask  a man  I know  who  follows  these 
things  more  closely  than  I do,  what  his  opinion  is  about  it. 
Then  I will  be  able  to  advise  you.  Please  give  my  regards 
to  Mrs.  Fessenden.  I do  not  seem  to  remember  her — but,  of 
course,  I wouldn’t  say  that  to  her.  Thank  you  for  the  offer 
of  the  books — I could  tell  better  about  them  if  you  would 
let  me  know  their  titles. 

Always  affectionately  your  nephew, 

A.  Jackson. 

On  the  bottom  of  the  sheet  Mr.  Jackson  had  later  added 
a note: 

I wrote  that  last  sentence,  inquiring  about  the  books, 
merely  to  be  polite.  Jackass! 

His  aunt’s  reply: 

Raspberry,  Maine, 

Dear  Agamemnon — I am  surprised  you  don’t  remember 
Mrs.  Fessenden,  and  she  seemed  to  feel  quite  bad  when  I 


i8o 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


told  her  you  had  forgotten  all  about  her.  She  says  she 
saved  you  from  a whipping  once  when  you  brought  a pail 
full  of  eels  and  bullfrogs  into  the  house,  and  one  of  the 
frogs  jumped  right  into  a bowl  of  dough  where  your  grand- 
mother was  making  marble  cake.  She  says  for  me  to  ask 
if  you  don’t  remember  the  time  you  fell  into  the  pig-pen 
and  she  pulled  you  out.  Of  course  I will  sell  the  stock  if 
you  really  think  I had  better,  though  Mr.  Huff  says  he 
thinks  I better  keep  it.  I hope  you  won’t  get  the  grip ; most 
everyone  has  got  it  this  winter,  and  old  Mrs.  Buntin  is  real 
sick.  Just  think,  she  was  ninety-seven  the  tenth  of  last 
September. 

With  much  love. 

Aunt  Martha. 

P.S. — I got  Miss  Peavey,  Mrs.  Fessenden’s  niece,  to  copy 
down  the  names  of  the  books,  she’s  real  smart  and  knows  all 
about  books  and  worked  in  the  library  one  summer,  while 
Miss  Damon  went  on  a vacation  down  to  Peak’s  Island. 

The  list  was  enclosed.  Here  is  a copy  of  it. 

1.  Wide,  Wide  World,  The. 

2.  Hannibal  Hamlin,  Life  of. 

3.  Among  the  Cannibals. 

4.  One  Thousand  Useful  Facts. 

5.  Satan  in  Society. 

6.  The  Dying  Unitarian,  or  Never  Too  Late  to  Seek  God’s 

Mercy. 

7.  Indian  Dream-book,  The. 

8.  Shakespeare’s  Comedies,  &c. 

9.  Complete  Horse  Doctor,  The. 

10.  Noted  Men  of  Cumberland  County. 

11.  The  Gin  Drinker’s  Grave. 

12.  The  Spy,  by  Jas.  Fenimore  Cooper. 

13.  Darkness  and  Daylight  in  New  York. 

14.  Earth,  Sea  and  Sky,  or.  The  Wonders  of  the  Universe. 

15.  Friendship’s  Casket. 

Entry  from  Mr.  Jackson’s  diary:  “I  should  never  have 
paid  any  more  attention  to  this  preposterous  lot  of  rub- 


THE  LOST  FIRST  FOLIO 


i8i 


bish,  if  Miss  Peavey  or  whatever  her  name  was,  had  not 
written  on  the  edge  of  the  list,  near  ‘Shakespeare’s  Com- 
edies’ the  words:  ‘This  looks  very  old.’  So  when  I 
wrote  to  Aunt  Martha,  thanking  her  for  her  trouble,  and 
saying  that  I didn’t  believe  I cared  for  any  of  the  books, 
I added  this:  ‘Please  ask  Miss  Peavey  how  old  the 
Shakespeare  is.’  ” 

This  is  Mrs.  Buxton’s  reply: 


Raspberry,  Maine. 

Dear  Agamemnon — I would  have  asked  Miss  Peavey 
about  the  book  but  she  has  gone  to  stay  with  her  cousin’s 
wife  in  Sacarappa  for  a month,  as  her  youngest  baby  is  only 
eight  weeks  old  and  the  hired  girl  has  left  and  so  every- 
thing is  all  upset.  They  are  real  nice  people,  her  husband 
owns  one  of  the  biggest  grocery  stores  in  Sacarappa.  They 
call  it  Westbrook,  or  something,  now,  but  it  is  always 
Sacarappa  to  me.  What  is  the  use  of  being  stuck-up?  It’s 
just  because  the  negro  minstrel  folks  made  so  much  fun  of 
the  name  Sacarappa.  Suppose  they  did.  Your  uncle’s 
brother  lived  there  for  over  twenty  years  until  he  joined  the 
New  Jerusalemiters  or  whatever  they  call  themselves,  and 
went  careering  about  the  world  with  that  crazy  creature,  and 
got  wrecked  on  the  coast  of  Africa  in  a hurricane,  and  came 
back  looking  like  a skeleton,  with  two  front  teeth  knocked 
out  somehow.  He  got  some  false  ones  made  up  in  Au- 
gusta and  they  didn’t  fit  him,  and  he  sued  the  man  and 
they  were  still  fighting  over  it  when  I heard  last.  Good- 
bye and  be  sure  to  take  care  of  yourself  when  you  go 
out. 

With  much  love. 

Aunt  Martha. 

P.S. — It  was  the  “Life  of  Hannibal  Hamlin’’  you  asked  about, 
wasn’t  it?  Shall  I send  it  to  you? 

Dear  Aunt  Martha — Do  not  send  the  “Life  of  Hannibal 
Hamlin.”  The  book  I asked  about  was  the  Shakespeare,  but 


i82 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


it  is  of  no  consequence  at  all.  Do  not  bother  any  more  in 
the  matter. 

Affectionately  yours, 

A.  Jackson. 


Raspberry,  Maine. 

Dear  Agamemnon — Why  didn’t  you  say  before  that  it 
was  the  Shakespeare  book  you  wanted  to  know  about?  I 
had  to  go  up  into  the  garret  this  morning  to  get  an  extra 
quilt  for  Mrs.  Fessenden’s  bed,  for  she  is  always  complain- 
ing about  being  cold,  though  it  seems  to  me  that  if  she  ate 
more  sensible  food  instead  of  those  things  made  out  of 
straw  and  bran  that  she  buys  for  her  health  instead  of  good 
meat  and  vegetables  her  blood  wouldn’t  be  so  thin.  But 
she  went  to  a place  out  in  Indiana,  where  they  eat  nothing 
but  grain,  and  learned  all  this  foolishness.  I brought  down 
the  Shakespeare  book  and  Mrs.  Fessenden  is  reading  it  now, 
but  she  says  that  all  those  s’s  that  look  like  f’s  make  her 
feel  as  if  her  mouth  was  full  of  cotton-batting,  and  it’s  too 
bad  Shakespeare  didn’t  get  his  books  printed  at  the  Bangor 
Times  Job  Printing  Office,  because  they  would  have  done  it 
much  better.  I must  say  that  if  Shakespeare  looked  like 
that  picture — if  it’s  meant  to  be  him — he  was  no  beauty. 
His  head  looks  like  a gourd.  Old  Mrs.  Buntin  died  Satur- 
day. They  say  she  left  all  her  property  to  her  niece’s  folks, 
and  cut  off  her  own  great-grandson  without  a cent. 

With  much  love. 

Aunt  Martha. 

Entry  in  Mr.  Jackson’s  diary:  “Head  like  a gourd 
My  God ! the  Droeshout  portrait.” 

Dear  Aunt  Martha:  Will  you  look  at  that  Shakespeare 
again,  and  tell  me  these  things? 

1.  Is  the  portrait  of  Shakespeare  on  the  title-page  itself — 
that  is,  is  it  on  the  page  where  the  name  of  the  book 
is  given? 


Mr.  WI  LLIAM 


7^ 


SHAKESPEARES 


COMEDIES, 
HISTORIES,  & 
TRAGEDIES 


i'uWi!t;eG  accarciiag  toilic  TioiaOi  jginatIGopici 


t 0 ,%T>  0 ; 

Tn'med by  liaac  Iaggard,«nd  EA B1  ount. 


iE  LOST  FIRST  FOLIO  183 

2.  What  is  the  date  of  the  book?  Look  at  the  bottom  of 

the  title-page  for  this. 

3.  What  else  does  it  say  at  the  bottom  of  the  title-page? 

Yours  in  great  haste. 

A.  Jackson. 


Answer  to  the  foregoing: 


Raspberry,  Maine. 

Dear  Agamemnon — Before  I forget  it  I want  to  ask  you 
if  you  will  go  to  the  Congregationalist  Observer  office  and 
ask  them  why  I didn’t  get  my  last  number.  Tell  them  I 
have  subscribed  ever  since  1868,  and  that  I have  always 
paid  the  subscription  as  regular  as  the  bill  came  around, 
but  I didn’t  get  my  number  today,  and  I thought  they  ought 
to  know  about  it.  I don’t  like  to  think  there  is  anyone  dis- 
honest in  our  post  office  here,  though  of  course  that  may  be 
it,  for  there’s  a new  man  who  hasn’t  been  in  Raspberry  but 
about  four  years  and  he  came  from  Chicago  although  he 
looks  honest.  But  if  you  will  go  in  and  see,  why  they  can 
tell  you  if  they  sent  it.  That  was  all  wrong  about  old  Mrs. 
Buntin’s  will.  Her  great-grandson,  you  remember  him, 
don’t  you?  He  went  to  Bowdoin  College  one  year,  but 
now  he’s  home,  and  they  say  he  smokes  cigarettes,  gets  the 
sawmill,  and  twelve  hundred  dollars. 

With  much  love. 

Aunt  Martha. 


Scrawled  on  the  bottom  of  this  letter,  in  Mr.  Jackson’s 
handwriting:  “Suffering  Cats!  was  there  ever  such  a 
woman !” 

Dear  Aunt  Martha — Will  you  please  answer  the  ques- 
tions about  the  Shakespeare  I asked  in  my  letter? 

In  haste, 

A.  Jackson. 


184 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


Raspberry,  Maine, 

Dear  Agamemnon — I dropped  your  letter  in  the  hall 
upstairs  and  Mrs.  Fessenden  found  it  and  thought  it  was 
just  a scrap  of  paper  and  wiped  her  curling-irons  on  it.  But 
I found  it  in  her  waste  basket — and  that  reminds  me  you 
needn’t  trouble  about  the  Observer,  for  it  came  all  right  on 
Monday.  I’m  glad  to  know  that  that  young  man  in  the 
post  office  didn’t  take  it. 

With  much  love, 

Aunt  Martha. 

P.S. — Yes,  the  picture  is  on  the  page  you  speak  of.  It  is  a 
big  one,  and  he  looks  as  if  he  needed  a shave.  The  date  is 
1623.  Just  think  of  that! 

It  says  at  the  bottom — London.  Printed  by  Isaac  laggard 
(That’s  what  it  looks  like,  anyhow)  and  Ed.  Blount.  I knew 
an  Ed.  Blunt  once— he  was  your  uncle’s  hired  man  when  we 
lived  in  Kittery. 


T elegram 

Mrs.  Martha  Buxton,  Raspberry,  Me. — Is  there  a poem 
opposite  title-page?  Wire  reply  collect. 

A.  Jackson. 

Raspberry,  Maine. 

Dear  Agamemnon — Well,  you  certainly  gave  us  all  a 
turn  with  your  telegram.  Mrs.  Fessenden  saw  the  boy  com- 
ing up  the  path  with  that  yellow  envelope  and  she  sank 
back  on  the  sofa  and  sat  right  down  on  my  work-basket 
and  might  have  got  lock-jaw  from  sitting  on  my  button- 
hole scissors.  She  said  she  knew  something  had  happened 
to  her  sister  in  Dover  whose  house  was  broken  into  last  fall 
by  two  Italians  who  got  into  a fight  next  day  and  one  of 
them  nearly  killed  the  other  one  and  she  had  to  go  down 
and  be  a witness  in  court.  As  for  me  all  I could  think  of 
was  the  last  time  a telegram  came  into  this  house  when  your 
uncle  broke  his  leg  down  to  Camden  on  an  excursion  with 
the  Odd  Fellows,  and  when  he  was  being  brought  home  some 


THE  LOST  FIRST  FOLIO 


185 

Meddlesome  Matty  or  other  gave  him  a drink  of  liquor, 
which  went  right  to  his  head  because  he  was  not  used  to  it, 
so  when  they  brought  him  into  the  house  he  was  singing 
an  awful  song  about  Terrar  rar  boom  Derray  or  something, 
with  the  minister  right  here  and  everybody.  I thought  I 
could  never  look  them  in  the  face  again.  However  I was 
glad  it  was  nothing  worse,  and  after  I went  upstairs  and 
got  Mrs.  Fessenden’s  bottle  of  cologne  in  case  it  was  bad 
news  about  her  sister,  and  I had  to  rub  her  head,  we  opened 
the  telegram.  Well,  I don’t  see  what  there  is  to  be  so  ex- 
cited about,  but  then  you  know  about  these  books  and  I don’t. 
Yes,  there  is  a kind  of  a thing  that  looks  like  a poem  on  the 
page  across  from  the  picture,  but  it  is  awful  poor  poetry.  I 
hope  you  are  taking  care  of  yourself.  Don’t  get  your  feet 
wet. 

With  much  love. 

Aunt  Martha. 

The  next  is  a letter,  by  special  delivery  from  Mr. 
Jackson. 


Dear  Aunt  Martha — I am  very  sorry  I frightened  you 
with  the  telegram,  but  I am  very  much  interested  in  that 
book.  Does  the  poem  begin  with  the  words  To  the  Reader 
and  is  it  signed  B.L^ 

Affectionately  yours, 

A.  Jackson. 

Raspberry,  Maine. 

Dear  Agamemnon — I got  your  special  delivery  letter  last 
night  when  I went  down  to  the  post  office  which  you  know  is 
in  Carr’s  grocery.  Jeff  Carr  said  that  if  the  folks  in  Wash- 
ington expect  him  to  go  traipsing  all  round  town  with  let- 
ters just  because  somebody  has  stuck  a blue  stamp  on  them, 
they  will  have  to  get  him  another  boy,  for  his  hired  man  was 
out  taking  some  eggs  to  Dr.  Roberts  who  is  sick  himself  and 
eats  twelve  eggs  a day,  so  everybody  says.  Yes,  the  poem 


i86 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


begins  and  ends  just  the  way  you  wrote.  Little  Nat 
Batchelder  was  here  last  night,  he  is  Mrs.  Fessenden’s  niece 
Lottie’s  second  boy,  and  he  wanted  to  take  the  book  to  school 
to  show  the  teacher  and  the  children,  because  it  is  so  old, 
and  he  is  going  to  speak  a piece  from  Shakespeare  next 
Saturday,  something  from  Julius  Csesar,  but  I wouldn’t  let 
him  take  it  because  I was  afraid  he  might  hurt  it.  He  felt 
real  bad,  and  I was  sorry  afterwards,  and  I thought  I’d  tell 
him  tomorrow  that  if  he  would  promise  to  take  good  care  of 
it,  he  might  have  it.  Y ou  don’t  tell  me  anything  about  your- 
self. Are  you  all  right*? 

With  much  love. 

Aunt  Martha. 

Comment  scrawled  on  the  margin  of  the  foregoing, 
in  a shaky  hand,  by  Mr.  Jackson:  “Letting  a kid  take 
a First  Folio  to  school  with  him!  Good  Lord!”  The 
rest  is  not  decipherable.  Mr.  Jackson’s  pen  made  some 
more  marks,  but  his  emotion  was  too  great,  and  they  are 
illegible. 


Telegram — Night  letter 

Mrs.  Martha  Buxton,  Raspberry,  Me. — Take  care  of 
that  book.  Don’t  let  anyone  get  it.  Don’t  let  anyone  read  it. 
Don’t  let  anyone  hurt  it.  Am  coming  up  to  see  it  as  soon 
as  I can  get  out  of  bed.  Have  got  grippe.  Put  it  in  the 
bank  if  you  can.  Above  all,  say  nothing  about  it  to  anyone. 

A.  Jackson. 

Raspberry^  Maine. 

Dear  Agamemnon — Your  long  telegram,  which  came  this 
morning,  frightened  us  most  to  death.  I hope  your  illness 
has  not  made  you  delirious.  You  need  not  worry  about  the 
book — it  is  all  right  and  no  one  shall  harm  it.  In  fact  Mrs. 
Fessenden  has  been  quite  interested  in  it,  and  sbe  found  a 
real  nice  picture  of  Shakespeare  in  an  old  copy  of  Harper  s 
Bazar,  which  she  cut  out,  and  then  she  cut  out  that  awful 


THE  LOST  FIRST  FOLIO  187 

thing  in  the  book,  and  burned  it  up  and  pasted  the  new  one 
in.  So  you  see  the  book  will  be  ever  so  much  improved. 
What  are  you  doing  for  your  grip?  Mr.  Fassett,  next  door, 
had  it  and  he  drank  a cup  of  anise-seed  tea  every  night  and 
he  says  it  did  him  lots  of  good.  You  better  try  it. 

• With  much  love. 

Aunt  Martha. 


The  nurse  who  was  attending  Mr.  Jackson  tells  me  that 
he  scarcely  moaned  after  reading  this  letter.  He  had 
one  quick  convulsion,  and  then  it  was  all  over. 


WITH  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS  TO  THOMAS 

DE  QUINCEY 


CHAPTER  XII 

WITH  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS  TO  THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 

That  Stroke  of  genius  in  which  De  Quincey  conceived 
the  title,  “On  Murder  considered  as  one  of  the  Fine 
Arts,”  compelled  the  attention  of  his  contemporaries,  and 
ensured  that  for  a century  to  come,  everybody  who  could 
read  English  should  at  least  have  heard  of  his  essay. 

Genius  has  a fashion  of  being  much  more  vivid  than 
the  self-styled  and  self-conscious  Moderns;  the  groups 
and  schools  which  plume  themselves  on  their  audacity 
usually  achieve  nothing  but  a pale  copy.  The  irony,  the 
grim  humor  with  which  De  Quincey  reported  the  pro- 
ceedings of  his  Society  of  Connoisseurs  in  Murder  set  its 
mark  upon  the  literature  of  crime;  a reflection  of  it  is 
to  be  found,  for  instance,  in  Mr.  Charles  Whibley’s 
“Book  of  Scoundrels.” 

At  his  best  De  Quincey  is  inimitable.  In  the  section 
which  discusses  various  philosophers  who  were  murdered 
— or  nearly  murdered — he  comes  to  Hobbes.  This  is  his 
opening  remark:  “Hobbes — but  why,  or  on  what  prin- 
ciple, I never  could  understand — was  not  murdered.” 
And  there  is  the  matchless  passage  in  which  the  author 
shows  how  dangerous  it  is  for  a man  to  indulge  himself 
in  murder,  because  he  may  go  on  to  robbery,  and  thence 
to  drinking  and  Sabbath-breaking,  and  from  that  to  in- 
civility and  procrastination.  This  paragraph  ends  with 

the  observation:  “Many  a man  has  dated  his  ruin  from 

191 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


192 

some  murder  or  other  that  perhaps  he  thought  little  of 
at  the  time.” 

For  a hundred  who  have  heard  the  title  of  the  essay, 
perhaps  three  have  read  it.  If  you  ask  for  it  at  a book- 
shop, you  may  be  offered  that  impediment  to  reading: 
a set  of  “Complete  Works.”  Or  the  book-seller  will 
vanish  for  a while,  then  return  and  tell  you  that  he  can 
sell  you  a copy  of  the  “Opium  Eater.”  As  for  the  other, 
— “We  can  get  it  for  you,  Sir.”  Few  read  De  Quincey 
nowadays,  and  the  few  are  mostly  students  who  are  sent 
to  one  of  his  essays  (not  the  one  on  Murder)  in  prepara- 
tion for  college  examinations. 

At  first,  De  Quincey  speaks  merely  of  a number  of 
brutal  assassinations.  When  he  commences  to  particu- 
larize, he  commends  the  murder  of  Gustavus  Adolphus 
for  its  unique  quality,  in  that  it  occurred  at  noonday, 
and  on  the  field  of  battle.  He  admits  that  the  grand 
feature  of  mystery,  in  some  shape  or  other  “ought  to 
colour  every  judicious  attempt  at  murder.”  Yet  he  dis- 
approves of  poisonings, — apparently  on  patriotic  grounds. 
“Can  they  not  keep  to  the  old  honest  way  of  cutting 
throats,  without  introducing  such  abominable  innova- 
tions from  Italy?”  This  recalls  the  plaint  of  the  Ameri- 
can legislator  who  was  opposing  a bill  to  adopt  the 
electric  chair  for  inflicting  the  death  penalty:  “I  am 

against  it,  Mr.  Speaker!  Hanging  was  good  enough  for 
my  grandfather,  and  it’s  good  enough  for  me!”  The 
denunciation  of  the  poisoners  is  in  that  section  of  the 
essay  which  appeared  in  1827;  in  his  later  years  he  had 
come  perhaps  to  a sounder  opinion.  His  biographer,  Mr. 
Masson,  says  that  he  paid  a great  amount  of  attention 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  193 

to  “the  trial  of  Palmer  in  1856  and  to  another  famous 
case  in  1857.”  Now,  Palmer  was,  of  course,  a poisoner; 
while,  as  any  amateur  in  murder  will  instantly  tell  you, 
1857  is  memorable  for  a murder  and  a trial  which  not 
only  dwarfed  all  others  of  that  year,  but  set  a standard 
forever.  Of  all  the  reputed  followers  of  Lucretia  Borgia, 
Miss  Madeleine  Smith  is  eminent,  not  only  for  her  win- 
some personality,  but  for  the  very  pretty  problem  she 
set  a number  of  citizens,  advocates  and  judges,  of  her 
day,  and  the  murder-fancier  forever. 

The  foundation  of  De  Quincey’s  essay  seems  to  be 
the  barbarous  killing  of  two  families  by  one  John  Wil- 
liams in  London  in  1811.  There  is  a strong  element  of 
terror  in  the  crimes,  because  about  twelve  days  separated 
the  attacks  on  the  two  families,  and  the  first  had  spread 
so  much  fear  abroad  that  the  public  mind  was  already 
excited  and  horrified  when  the  second  blow  fell.  There 
is  also  some  mystery.  De  Quincey  accepts  the  guilt  of 
Williams  as  undoubted;  a later  account  which  I have 
seen  is  less  certain  about  it.  Williams  committed  suicide 
in  jail;  and  that,  Daniel  Webster  would  say,  is  confes- 
sion. But  while  some  of  the  evidence  against  Williams 
was  very  damaging,  there  was  still  room  for  doubt.  The 
murderer  spared  neither  man,  woman  nor  child,  and  as 
no  ordinary  motive  appeared  for  slaying  these  people, 
Williams,  if  guilty,  must  have  been  one  of  those  hideous 
creatures  who,  like  the  weasel,  sheds  blood  for  the  mere 
savage  joy  of  it.  In  other  words,  he  was  a homicidal 
maniac,  and  the  murders  do  not  at  all  belong  in  the 
category  of  those  to  be  considered  by  De  Quincey.  There 
was  terror  in  them,  atjd  a little  mystery;  otherwise  they 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


194 

were  a senseless  slaughter,  and  unworthy  the  attention 
paid  them  by  his  club  of  amateurs. 

The  greatest  scholar  among  the  men  to  whose  teaching 
I have  been  privileged  to  listen  is  Professor  George 
Lyman  Kittredge.  In  his  lectures  on  Shakespeare,  nat- 
urally enough  he  had  something  to  say  about  murder,  and 
the  mawkish  attitude  which  some  persons  adopt  toward 
it.  In  one  of  his  books*  he  sums  up  his  opinions : 

Now,  nothing  is  more  interesting  than  Murder.  Murder 
is  the  material  of  great  literature, — the  raw  material,  if  you 
will,  but  is  not  raw  material  essential  to  production,  as  well 
in  art  as  in  manufactures  “?  What  distinguishes  De  Quincey’s 
famous  Postscript  on  certain  memorable  murders  from  the 
grewsome  scareheaded  “stories”  of  the  purveyor  for  the  daily 
press'?  Surely  not  the  matter!  The  bare  plot  of  the  sub- 
limest  of  Greek  tragedies,  the  Agamemnon  of  Aischylus,  finds 
its  closest  parallel  in  a horrible  butchery  in  low  life  that 
occurred  in  New  York  a few  years  ago.  Conventional 
phrases  are  always  tiresome  enough,  but  none  is  more  so  than 
that  of  “morbid  curiosity”  as  applied  to  the  desire  to  know 
the  circumstances  of  a great  crime.  The  phrase  is  like  a 
proverb:  it  is  only  half  true,  though  it  masquerades  as  one 
of  the  eternal  verities.  Curiosity  is  natural ; without  it  a 
man  is  a mere  block,  incapable  of  intellectual  advancement. 
And  curiosity  about  crime  and  criminals  is  no  less  natural,  no 
further  morbid — that  is,  diseased  or  abnormal — than  that 
which  attaches  to  any  other  startling  event  or  remarkable 
personage.  Like  all  other  forms  of  curiosity,  it  may  become 
morbid,  and  perhaps  it  is  well  to  restrain  it, — but  that  is  not 
the  question. 

The  interest  in  murder  is  shared  by  practically  every- 
one, except  a few  who  think  the  subject  is  “low”  or 
degrading.  There  are  also  the  gentlemen  who  have 

•“The  Old  Farmer  and  his  Almanack.” 


195 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 

acquired  a reputation  for  exquisite  literary  taste  by  de- 
crying every  author  in  the  world  except,  perhaps,  one, 
and  every  subject  for  literature  except  one.  The  single 
author  whom  they  praise  is  invariably  a European,  and 
usually  a Frenchman.  His  devotees  are  condemned  to 
the  perusal  of  a monotonous  catalogue  of  adulteries.  The 
idea  that  the  infraction  of  one  commandment  alone  is 
the  sole  topic  for  literature  is  a curious  example  of  the 
bigotry  which,  with  some  folk,  accompanies  vociferous 
demands  for  literary  freedom.  It  is  an  odd  notion  which 
discerns  freedom  in  ossification. 


Murder  is  not  a topic  foreign  to  any  of  us.  One  does 
not  have  to  be  a police  officer,  nor  an  assistant  district 
attorney,  like  Mr.  Arthur  Train,  to  whom  a prosecution 
for  murder  is  a matter  of  routine,  to  realize  that  the 
subject  is  near  at  hand.  James  Payn  is  quoted  as  hazard- 
ing a guess  that  one  person  in  every  five  hundred  is  an 
undiscovered  murderer.  “This,”  says  H.  B.  Irving, 
with  decided  gusto,  “gives  us  all  a hope,  almost  a 
certainty,  that  we  may  reckon  one  such  person  at  least 
among  our  acquaintances.”  Mr.  Irving  adds  that  he  was 
one  of  three  men  discussing  this  subject  in  a London  club. 
They  were  able  to  name  six  persons  of  their  various 
acquaintance  who  were,  or  had  been,  suspected  of  being 
successful  murderers. 

Probably  most  men,  and  some  women,  could,  if  they 
would,  give  similar  testimony.  A member  of  my 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


196 

family  actually  witnessed  a murder;  and  this  in  no 
lawless  community,  but  on  a quiet  street  of  a city.  Inside 
a period  of  less  than  four  years  it  happened,  even  to  as 
cloistered  a person  as  myself,  to  take  part  in  two  trials 
for  murder,  once  as  member  of  a court  martial,  and  in 
a civil  trial  as  foreman  of  the  jury.  A number  of  years 
earlier  I had  a curious  experience  in  a museum  connected 
with  a university.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  just 
before  closing  time,  and  I was  hunting  for  some  specimen 
which  I wished  to  see.  Down  the  long  aisle  of  the  museum 
there  came  hurrying  a gentleman,  putting  on  his  hat  and 
coat, — evidently  one  of  the  museum  staff,  leaving  for  the 
day.  He  stopped,  however,  when  he  saw  that  I was 
looking  for  something,  and  asked,  most  politely,  if  he 
could  be  of  any  assistance.  I explained  what  it  was  I 
was  trying  to  find,  and  he  led  me  to  another  room,  and 
took  pains  to  show  me  the  specimen,  which  I think  was 
a bird  of  some  kind.  After  giving  me  further  informa- 
tion about  it,  and  saying  good-night  with  more  than 
ordinary  courtesy,  he  departed,  leaving  me  interested, 
not  in  the  bird,  but  in  his  own  identity.  His  face  was 
familiar;  I had  certainly  seen  him  before,  and  under  such 
peculiar  circumstances  that  I felt  the  utmost  curiosity 
to  remember  why  he  had  made  such  an  impression.  After 
torturing  myself  for  half  an  hour,  I recollected  the  polite 
gentleman:  I had  seen  him  only  once  before,  but  that 
was  in  court,  where  he  was  on  trial  for  his  life,  on  the 
charge  of  murder. 

No  specialist  in  murder  should  miss  the  precepts 
formed  by  Miss  Carolyn  Wells  in  “The  Technique  of 
the  Mystery  Story,”  about  the  most  amusing  volume  ever 


197 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 

found  masquerading  as  a text-book.  One  is  this:  “A 

true  lover  of  detective  fiction  never  reads  detailed  news- 
paper accounts  of  crime.”  In  conversation  Miss  Wells 
readily  admits  exceptions  to  this  statement,  citing  the 
Elwell  murder, — which  certainly  might  have  been 
planned  and  executed  by  a devotee  of  Mrs.  Anna  Kath- 
arine Green’s  novels.  On  a later  page  Miss  Wells  de- 
clares that  the  theory  upon  which  Stevenson  and  Lloyd 
Osbourne  built  their  murder  and  mystery  story  “The 
Wrecker,”  is  quite  wrong,  inasmuch  as  a mystery  story 
cannot  be  combined  with  a novel  of  manners. 

It  is  dangerous  to  try  to  define  the  true  lover  of  de- 
tective fiction.  It  would  be  surprising  to  learn  that  De 
Quincey  was  not  a true  lover  of  such  detective  fiction  as 
was  available  in  his  day.  He  wrote  some  of  it;  and  he 
certainly  read  newspaper  accounts  of  crime.  Is  not  Sir 
Arthur  Conan  Doyle  a lover  of  detective  fiction?  He 
has  concerned  himself  with  the  actual  cases  of  Edalji 
and  of  Oscar  Slater  in  his  own  country,  and  while  in 
New  York  in  1914  sought  an  interview  with  Charles 
Becker,  then  under  sentence  of  death.  I would  praise 
far  more  than  does  Miss  Wells,  in  her  book,  Arthur 
Train’s  “True  Stories  of  Crime”;  if  half  of  the  books 
of  detective  fiction  were  as  entertaining  as  Mr.  Train’s 
narratives  there  would  be  more  interesting  reading  in  the 
world.  “The  Wrecker”  is  truly,  for  its  lack  of  form, 
more  open  to  criticism  than  anything  else  by  Stevenson. 
But  as  a mystery  story,  about  people  in  whom  the  reader 
is  made  to  feel  an  interest,  and  under  circumstances  so 
carefully  described  as  to  seem  credible,  it  is  like  a moun- 
tain-peak rising  high  over  the  foot-hills  of  thousands  of 


198  BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 

average  detective  tales.  Sherlock  Holmes  once  made  a re- 
mark to  the  general  effect  that  a detective  mystery  should 
be  stated  in  as  direct  and  simple  terms  as  a theorem  of 
Euclid.  Not  pausing  to  notice  that  this  is  Holmes’ 
remark,  and  not  that  of  his  creator,  a number  of  writers 
have  gone  to  wreck  upon  this  theory, — just  as  others  have 
blamed  Sir  Arthur  Conan  Doyle  for  jeering  at  Poe’s 
Dupin,  when  it  was  really  Holmes  who  jeered.  If  the 
author  of  the  Sherlock  Holmes  stories  had  carried  out 
this  Euclid  plan,  we  should  never  have  heard  of  Holmes. 


To  collect  murders  requires  care,  taste,  and  judgment, 
as  with  anything  else.  To  amass  an  indiscriminate  heap 
of  orchids,  of  Italian  rapiers,  or  of  opals,  with  no  cri- 
terion except  the  utterly  absurd  one,  say,  of  size,  is  to 
fill  your  house  with  rubbish.  The  great  gallery  of  dis- 
tinguished murderers  has  no  room  for  a horde  of  rough- 
and-tumble  slayers.  De  Quincey,  in  truth,  noted  this 
fact  when  he  wrote  that  “something  more  goes  to  the 
composition  of  a fine  murder  than  two  blockheads  to  kill 
and  be  killed — a knife — a purse — and  a dark  lane.”  And 
again,  he  condemns  “old  women  and  the  mob  of  news- 
paper readers”  who  are  “pleased  with  anything  provided 
it  is  bloody  enough.”  The  subject  of  a murder,  he  says, 
ought  to  be  a good  man,  he  should  not  be  a pubKc  charac- 
ter, and  he  ought  to  be  in  good  health, — “for  it  is  abso- 
lutely barbarous  to  murder  a sick  person,  who  is  usually 
quite  unable  to  bear  it.”  As  to  “the  time,  the  place,  and 


199 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 

the  tools,”  he  adds  that  the  good  sense  of  the  prac- 
titioner “has  usually  directed  him  to  night  and  privacy.” 
He  notes  an  exception, — a murder  to  which  I shall  refer 
later. 

Can  we  take  these  principles  as  they  were  laid  down 
by  De  Quincey,  and  while  admitting  their  importance 
to  all  fanciers  of  murder,  try  to  revise  them  in  the  light 
of  later  research?  Is  it  possible  thereby  to  raise  some 
standards  for  today  to  which  the  collectors  of  murders 
may  repair?  How,  in  short,  do  we  define  the  pure  murder^ 
— not  as  the  scientific  criminologist  uses  the  term,  but 
as  the  collector  and  amateur  may  be  permitted  to  em- 
ploy it? 

First,  it  is  necessary  to  eliminate,  to  exclude,  to  state 
what  kind  of  killings  are  not  pure  murders.  The  rule 
against  the  murder  of  public  characters  is  sound,  as  every- 
one will  agree.  The  political  assassination  has  too  many 
other  aspects  aside  from  the  destruction  of  the  individ- 
ual ; the  whole  matter  is  confused,  hopelessly,  with 
issues  which  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  problem  of 
murder. 

Next,  and  this  is  an  extremely  important,  although 
difficult,  point,  the  crime  passionel  is,  generally  speaking, 
to  be  ruled  out.  The  jealous  lover,  the  forsaken  maiden, 
the  injured  husband,  the  discarded  mistress,  the  vengeful 
wife, — these  stock  characters  in  the  melodrama  of  life 
are  forever  killing  somebody  or  other,  but  there  is  in  their 
deeds  an  extraneous  and  even  sensational  interest,  which 
detracts  from  its  value  in  the  eyes  of  the  austere  amateur 
of  murder.  Their  crimes  are,  with  rare  exceptions,  so 
excessively  cheap, — the  stuff  for  the  Sunday  supplement 


200 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


in  the  yellow  press.  The  folk  who  dote  upon  them, — 
vulgarians  and  riff-raff. 

A love  affair,  licit  or  otherwise,  may  be  interesting  by 
itself;  a murder  is ‘almost  inevitably  so.  Combine  the 
two,  and,  as  with  many  mixtures  (shandygaff,  for  ex- 
ample), you  merely  spoil  both  components.  And  there  is 
a still  higher  ground  for  objection  to  the  murder  which 
has  its  origin  in  sexual  passion:  it  is  frequently  so  im- 
moral. Touch  pitch  and  be  defiled! 

Newspapermen  pretend  that  the  public  will  take 
no  extended  interest  in  any  murder  “unless  there  is 
a woman  in  it,”  and  acting  upon  this  belief,  they  some- 
times do  strange  things.  Not  long  ago  it  chanced  to 
be  my  duty  to  become  acquainted  with  the  minutest 
details  of  a murder  which  had  been  committed  twenty 
years  earlier.  The  cause  of  the  murder  was  a quar- 
rel over  the  price  of  meat, — that  and  nothing  else. 
Yet  when  the  investigation  was  over,  and  I had  the 
curiosity  to  look  at  the  old  newspaper  reports  of  the  crime, 
the  very  first  one  I discovered  referred  to  a “dark-eyed 
and  beautiful  brunette,”  evolved  out  of  the  inner  con- 
sciousness of  some  faithful  reporter.  She,  according  to 
his  story  written  on  the  day  of  the  murder,  had  urged 
the  slayer  to  his  dreadful  deed.  No  mention  whatever 
was  made  of  the  true  cause:  the  prosaic  bacon  and  sau- 
sages. 

Yet  it  must  be  admitted  that  to  make  this  rule  abso- 
lute, to  deny  any  fascination  whatever  to  those  murders 
which  spring  from  love  and  jealousy  would  be  a serious 
blunder.  The  exception  to  a rule  may  be  brilliant  and 
it  is  in  this  instance.  Since  the  day,  nearly  seventy  years 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCE Y 201 

ago,  when  Miss  Madeleine  Smith,  “her  step  as  buoyant 
and  her  eyes  as  bright  as  if  she  were  entering  a box  at 
the  opera”  took  her  place  in  the  dock  at  Edinburgh,  it 
has  been  impossible  to  dispose  of  the  crime  of  passion  as 
altogether  unworthy  of  attention.  Miss  Smith,  with  her 
celebrated  brown  silk  dress,  her  lavender  gloves,  and 
silver-topped  smelling  bottle,  and  it  is  murmured,  her 
pretty  foot  and  ankle  displayed  for  the  benefit  of  the 
judges,  fixed  the  attention  of  the  world  upon  that  High 
Court  of  Justiciary  for  nine  long  days, — an  incredible 
time  for  a trial  in  1857.  As  the  jury,  by  a majority 
of  13  to  2,  decided  that  it  was  “not  proven”  that  she 
had  put  arsenic  in  the  cocoa  or  coffee  with  which  she  enter- 
tained her  lover,  M.  Emile  L’Angelier,  it  would  prob- 
ably be  unwise  to  express  the  opinion  that  there  was 
something  peculiar  about  those  drinks.  It  is  not  abso- 
lutely outside  the  bounds  of  human  possibility  that  Miss 
Smith  survives  today,*  the  wife  or  the  widow  of  one  of 
those  “hundreds  of  gentlemen”  who  wrote  to  her  at  the 
close  of  the  trial,  some  of  them  offering  her  “consolation” 
and  some  “their  hearts  and  homes.”  So  if  there  were 
doubtful  souls  who  resolutely  declined  to  accept  tea  or 
coffee  of  her  brewing,  there  were  many  others  who 
scorned  such  ungallant  suspicions.  In  his  careful  history 
of  the  trial,  Mr.  A.  Duncan  Smith  names  sixteen  different 
books  or  pamphlets  on  the  case,  but  later  than  any  of 

• Lord  Riddell  in  a recent  book  implies  that  she  died,  a happy  wife  and 
mother,  at  the  age  of  8o, — i.e.,  in  about  the  year  1916.  I think  this  is  an 
error.  A writer  in  Notes  and  Queries  (Oct.  14,  1911)  gives  his  authori- 
ties for  the  statement  that  she  entered  upon  two  marriages,  neither  of 
them  fortunate,  one  with  a Dr.  Hora  in  1857,  and  one  with  a Mr.  Wardle 
(O,  Pickwick!)  in  1861.  As  Mrs.  Wardle  she  died  at  Melbourne,  Sept. 
29,  1893. 


202 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


these  appeared  a novel,  “The  House  in  Queen  Anne 
Square”  by  W.  D.  Lyell,  published  about  1911.  There 
is  in  this  a fantastic  resemblance  to  some  of  the  facts 
in  the  Madeleine  Smith  case,  none  of  them  stranger  than 
that  the  heroine  appears  as  a most  woefully  persecuted 
and  maligned  virgin,  of  saintly  character. 

Mr.  William  Roughead,  the  admirable  historian  of, 
Scottish  murders  and  mysteries,  relates  in  his  book, 
“Twelve  Scots  Trials,”  the  adventures  of  Mrs.  John 
Gilmour  (born  Christina  Cochran)  who  preceded  Miss 
Smith  by  thirteen  years.  Uncharitable  officers  of  the 
Crown  professed  to  see  a connection  between  certain  pur- 
chases of  arsenic  by  this  lady  and  the  subsequent  death, 
under  painful  circumstances,  of  her  newly  married  hus- 
band. Aided  by  her  friends,  Mrs.  Gilmour  found  it 
discreet  to  retire  to  America;  she  arrived  in  New  York 
about  June  1843,  an  early  member  of  that 

troop  of  pilgrims  who  come,  not  in  battalions  but  as 
single  spies,  across  the  Atlantic.  Oscar  Slater  and  Dr. 
Crippen  were  known  to  our  own  time  for  their  voyages 
hither.  But  the  hand  of  the  law  rested  not  so  heavily 
upon  Christina  Gilmour  as  upon  these  later  fugitives. 

Another  kind  of  crime  which  is  not  within  our  field  is 
the  murder  committed  by  a madman.  I know  that  there 
is  a current  weakness  for  the  saying:  ^"All  criminals  are 
insane.”  But  law,  medicine,  and  religion  alike  know 
better;  to  say  it,  is  a sign  of  that  oily  philanthropy  which 
thinks  it  noble  to  express  rosy  opinions  which  everyone 
knows  are  untrue.  It  finds  a similar  manifestation  in 
talking  about  the  inmates  of  a prison  as  a lot  of  capital 
fellows  who  have  been  cruelly  “misunderstood”  by  the 


203 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 

folk  outside;  it  expresses  itself  by  showing  the  liveliest 
sjTTipathy  for  all  murderers  of  an  especially  barbarous 
type,  but  it  never  utters  a word  of  regret  for  their  vic- 
tims. Those  who  form  their  opinions  of  the  world  and 
its  people  from  observation,  and  not  by  viewing  them 
through  a mist  of  sentimentality,  know  that  just  as  there 
are  no  limits  to  the  heights  of  nobility  and  self-sacrifice 
of  w'hich  human  nature  is  capable,  so  there  has  never 
been  found  any  measuring  rod  or  line  to  sound  the  depths 
to  which  it  can  descend.  When  a crime  is  done  and  folk 
begin  to  say:  “Oh,  she  (or  he)  could  never  have  done 
anything  so  dreadful  as  that!”  it  would  be  well  for  them 
to  know  of  Miss  Constance  Kent,  a well-bred  girl  of 
sixteen,  who  in  England,  about  i860,  took  her  infant 
half-brother  out  of  the  house  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
and  cut  his  throat, — merely  to  express  her  disapproval 
of  step-mothers  and  second  marriages.*  She  subse- 
quently saw  her  father,  and  also  a nurse,  suspected 
of  the  crime,  and  left  them  to  their  fate, — which 
might  have  been  the  gallows,  so  far  as  she  did  anything 
to  prevent  it.  It  would  also  be  well  to  recall  “an  Ameri- 
can mother”  (a  phrase  sometimes  used  as  synonymous 
with  innocence)  named  Mrs.  Whiteling,  who  in  Penn- 
sylvania, in  1888,  poisoned  her  husband,  her  daughter 
aged  nine,  and  her  son  aged  three,  in  order  to  collect 
their  insurance, — a total  sum  of  $399.  Another  useful 

•A  sentiment  which,  Mr.  James  L.  Ford  would  say,  was  shared  by  the 
editor  of  the  JVew  York  Ledger.  See  Chapter  II  of  “The  Literary 
Shop,” — the  one  published  in  1894,  not  the  later  one  of  similar  title. 
But,  of  course,  Mr.  Robert  Bonner  never  translated  his  aversion  to  step- 
mothers into  the  line  of  conduct  pursued  by  Miss  Kent,  the  heroine  of 
the  Road  Mystery. 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


204 

memory  is  that  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Richeson,  a clergyman 
actually  in  charge  of  a parish,  who  as  he  acquired  the 
poison  with  which  to  kill  the  girl  he  had  betrayed  (and 
to  clear  the  way  for  a marriage  to  a wealthier  lady) 
accompanied  the  purchase  with  a remark  of  fiendish 
cynicism.  The  faction  had  already  arisen*  which  “would 
never  believe  that  he  could  do  such  a dreadful  thing,” 
when — he  confessed. 

The  act  of  the  genuine  madman,  however,  usually  has 
no  place  in  a study  of  pure  murder.  It  is  not  of  interest, 
for  the  same  reason  that  the  tragedy  of  “Hamlet”  would 
not  be  of  interest  if  the  hero  were  insane, — as  some  read- 
ers have  professed  to  believe  that  he  was.  The  most  noto- 
rious crimes  supposed  to  be  the  work  of  a maniac,  are,  of 
course,  the  Whitechapel  murders  in  1888.  I refer  to  them 
only  to  cite  the  extraordinarily  skilful  novel  by  Mrs. 
Belloc  Lowndes,  called  “The  Lodger,”  which  is  based 
upon  them.  Of  all  the  novels  which  I have  read,  with 
murder  for  their  theme,  I know  of  few  better  than  this. 
Mrs.  Lowndes  has  taken  the  most  revolting  crimes,  and 
treated  them  unobjectionably;  there  is  nothing  in  the 
book  which  need  disturb  any  reader  whose  nerves  are 


* A situation  of  this  kind  is  described  in  “Tom  Sawyer.”  Injun  Joe, 
after  murdering  a man,  and  getting  another  accused  of  it,  is  found  dead, 
a fact  which,  Mark  Twain  writes,  “stopped  the  further  growth  of  one 
thing — the  petition  to  the  Governor  for  Injun  Joe’s  pardon.  The  petition 
had  been  largely  signed,  many  tearful  and  eloquent  meetings  had  been 
held,  and  a committee  of  sappy  women  been  appointed  to  go  in  deep 
mourning  and  wail  around  the  Governor  and  implore  him  to  be  a 
merciful  ass  and  trample  his  duty  under  foot.  Injun  Joe  was  believed 
to  have  killed  five  citizens  of  the  village,  but  what  of  that?  If  he  had 
been  Satan  himself  there  would  have  been  plenty  of  weaklings  ready 
to  scribble  their  names  to  a pardon  petition,  and  drip  a tear  on  it  from 
their  permanently  impaired  and  leaky  water-works.” 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  205 

in  proper  order.  And  yet  the  effect  of  some  of  the  pas- 
sages is  only  surpassed  (if  they  are  surpassed)  by  sucH 
great  murder-chapters  as  Mr.  Tulkinghorn’s  return  to 
his  chambers  in  “Bleak  House,”  and  the  interview  with 
the  murderer  in  the  lonely  house,  in  Arthur  Morrison  s 
“The  Green  Diamond.”*  “The  Lodger”  is  an  exception; 
the  art  of  its  author  has  made  a homicidal  maniac  inter- 
esting. 

The  murder  accompanying  a robbery  is  not  a proper 
subject  for  our  collection,  if  it  arises  as  a more  or  less 
unpremeditated  event.  If  it  is  planned  as  part  and  par- 
cel of  the  robbery — and  is  not  a mere  incident  thereto — 
it  may  have  excellent  points.  Such  instances  as  those 
of  the  numerous  army  of  peddlers  who  were  perpetually 
getting  murdered  all  over  Europe  during  the  Eighteenth 
and  Nineteenth  Centuries  are  not  to  be  despised.  The 
Polish  Jew,  in  “The  Bells,”  is  a familiar  example;  almost 
every  country  town  had  one  of  them.  De  Quincey  cites 
the  Begbie  Mystery  (it  is  always  honored  with  the  capital 
M)  in  Edinburgh  in  1806,  as  a daylight  murder.  As 
it  took  place  about  five  o’clock  of  a November  afternoon, 
I doubt  if  there  could  have  been  much  daylight  lurking 
about. j"  It  was  a bold  and  well-planned  murder,  as  a 
necessary  prelude  to  a robbery.  The  murderer  is  still 
unknown,  and  by  this  time,  probably  beyond  reach  of 
the  law.  For  an  account  of  it,  together  with  some  plau- 
sible suspicions,  I must  refer  you  again  to  Mr.  Rough- 
ead;  to  his  volume  “The  Riddle  of  the  Ruthvens.” 

It  is  possible  that,  as  a matter  of  strict  principle,  we 

• Called  in  England,  “The  Green  Eye  of  Goona.” 
t Walter  Scott  also  says  “broad  daylight.”  Maybe  I am  wrong. 


2o6 


BOOKS  IN  BLACK  OR  RED 


should  exclude  those  persons  with  whom  murder  is  not 
a master-stroke,  to  have  its  one — or  in  extreme  cases, 
two  exhibitions, — but  with  whom  it  has  become  a settled 
habit — an  addiction.  There  will  be  objections  to  this, 
and  some  brilliant  names  will  be  cited  in  disproof.  The 
world,  careless  as  it  is,  has  not  yet  forgotten  M.  Landru, 
who  in  1922  suffered  the  extreme  penalty  of  the  law 
in  the  streets  of  Paris,  for  the  murder  of — was  it  eleven 
persons?  The  late  H.  B.  Irving,  one  of  the  most 
distinguished  of  all  collectors  in  this  field,  and  author 
of  three  books  which  it  is  impossible  to  praise  too 
highly,  died  before  he  could  write  of  Landru.  His  ac- 
quaintance with  French  crime,  and  the  manner  of  all 
his  writings  on  this  subject,  show  that  he  should  have 
been  Landru’s  historian.  Mr.  H.  C.  Bailey,  the  novelist, 
wrote  a good  essay  on  Landru  for  the  Daily  Telegraph. 
He  did  not  fail  to  notice  the  peculiar  humor  of  the 
prisoner, — a humor  which  charmed  Paris  for  many  weeks. 
From  the  beginning,  M.  Landru  seems  to  have  thought 
of  himself  as  a man  bound  by  all  the  considerations  of 
chivalry  to  protect,  from  the  vulgar  prying  of  the  police, 
the  reputations  of  those  who  had  confided  to  him  their 
fortunes  and  their  hearts.  Officials  were  curious  to  dis- 
cover why  so  many  ladies  who  retired  to  M.  Landru’s 
country  homes  never  seemed  to  come  back  to  Paris, — 
nor,  indeed,  to  be  found  again  anywhere.  His  answers 
were  always  in  the  same  strain, — that  of  the  gallant, 
high-minded  gentleman.  Where  were  Mme.  Cuchet  and 
her  son?  He  declined  to  answer.  “I  have  nothing  to 
say.  I have  always  said  that  the  private  affairs  of  Mme. 
Cuchet  and  her  son  were  nobody’s  business.”  Why 


207 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 

should  she  have  vanished?  “Here,”  said  M.  Landru, 
“we  come  to  certain  matters  which  I have  always  refused 
to  reveal.”  What  had  become  of  Mme.  Laborde-Line? 
“The  private  life  of  Mme.  Laborde-Line,”  said  he,  “is 
a wall  which  I am  not  willing  to  scale.  ...  I have  had 
commercial  transactions  with  women.  It  is  not  my  busi- 
ness to  know  w'hat  became  of  the  women.”  How  about 
Mme.  Guillin, — where  is  she?  “As  to  her  disappear- 
ance, I have  nothing  to  say.  It  has  taken  four  years  to 
lay  hands  on  me,  for  they  have  been  looking  for  me 
since  1915,  and  only  arrested  me  in  1919.  They  have 
only  been  looking  for  Mme.  Guillin  three  years.  Per- 
haps they  will  find  her  yet.”  He  could  be  sardonic. 
On  the  last  day  of  his  trial,  as  he  gazed  at  the  women 
struggling  for  seats  in  the  court,  he  was  heard  to  mur- 
mur: “If  any  of  those  ladies  would  like  my  place  I will 
very  willingly  give  it  up  to  them.”  No;  M.  Landru  must 
not  lightly  be  dismissed  because,  in  his  practice  of  mur- 
der, he  seems  to  have  been  unable  to  observe  moderation. 

Similarly,  England  puts  forward  the  claims  of  George 
Joseph  Smith,  who,  about  1915,  invested  the  common- 
place bath-tub  with  a new  element  of  romance  by  making 
this  humble  receptacle  the  scene  of  a succession  of  mur- 
ders, in  which  the  subjects,  I regret  to  say,  were  all 
ladies.  Perhaps,  in  employing  a bath  for  the  murder  of 
these  ladies,  Mr.  Smith  felt  that  he  was,  in  some  fashion, 
avenging  the  male  sex.  His  great  exemplars  in  this 
method  were  both  women:  Clytemnestra  and  Charlotte 
Corday. 

And  our  own  country — never  behind  the  other  nations 
— offers,  for  the  connoisseur,  Herman  W.  Mudgett, 


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whose  name  suggests  the  bizarre  Americans  found  often- 
est  in  novels  written  by  British  authors.  His  claim  of 
twenty-seven  murders  is  held  to  be  excessive,  but  Mr. 
Mudgett  seems  correctly  to  have  felt  that  his  was  no 
manner  of  name  for  one  embarking  upon  such  a career, 
and  therefore  rose  to  fame  under  the  hard  pencilian  style 
of  “H.  H.  Holmes.” 

It  may  seem  that  I have,  one  after  another,  excluded 
from  the  field  of  the  collector  about  every  kind  of  mur- 
der, and  then  proceeded  to  quote  glittering  exceptions  to 
my  rules.  That  is  the  impression  which  I get  from  read- 
ing over  what  I have  written.  But  it  should  be  observed 
that  all  the  exceptions  either  have  that  element  of  mys- 
tery which  “ought  to  colour  every  judicious  attempt  at 
murder,”  or  possess  some  other  feature  to  lift  them  out 
of  the  ruck.  They  are,  by  virtue  of  this,  proper  addi- 
tions to  any  collection,  however  critically  chosen.  A 
mistaken  acquittal,  an  unjust  or  doubtful  conviction  and 
punishment,  a verdict  of  “not  proven,”  all  of  these,  as 
well  as  that  jewel  of  jewels,  the  absolutely  unexplained 
and  undetected  murder,  furnish  the  necessary  mystery 
which  brightens  the  collector’s  eye  and  makes  his  heart 
to  sing. 

Is  it  not  time,  say  you,  for  me  to  bring  forward  some 
pure  murderers^  some  who  do  not  transgress  the  rules? 
Well,  there  is  Dr.  Lamson,  who  in  1881  boldly  ad- 
ministered poison  to  his  victim,  in  the  presence  of  a 
witness.  There  is  Miss  Constance  Kent,  already  men- 
tioned, who  has  a further  distinction  in  that  the  detective 
who  investigated  this  murder  is  said  to  have  been  the 
original  for  Sergeant  Cuff  in  “The  Moonstone,”  a novel 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  209 

still  one  of  the  best  of  detective  stories,  and  saturated 
with  the  spirit  of  murder,  although  only  one,  or  at  most, 
two,  homicides  actually  occur  in  the  course  of  it.  There 
is  the  Unknown  Man  who  committed  the  murder  for 
which  Oscar  Slater  is  at  the  present  moment  unjustly 
suffering.  Unjustly,  in  the  opinion  of  Sir  Arthur  Conan 
Doyle,  whose  book  on  the  subject,  as  well  as  the  account 
of  the  trial  (in  the  Notable  British  Trials  series),  seems 
to  me  to  establish  the  fact  of  a miscarriage  of  justice. 
There  are  two  New  York  specimens  separated  by  thirty 
or  forty  years  in  time : the  Nathan  murder  and  the  Patrick 
murder.  There  is  the  Bram  case — murder  on  the  high 
seas.  There  is  the  murder  of  Dr.  Parkman  by  Professor 
Webster — a little  frayed  after  seventy  years  of  service 
as  the  classic  American  murder.  Hundreds  of  European 
and  English  fanciers  have  added  this  to  their  collections, 
and  you  could  almost  think,  after  reading  some  foreign 
writers,  that  we  had  never  produced  any  murderer  worthy 
of  attention  since  the  days  of  Professor  Webster!  And 
there  is  that  clear  unwavering  star  of  the  first  magnitude, 
as  plainly  the  premier  amongst  American  murders  as 
the  Madeleine  Smith  in  Scotland,  the  case  of — but  space 
is  wanting  to  describe  a masterpiece  which  I hope 
later  to  discuss  in  something  approaching  an  adequate 
manner. 

It  is  important,  in  passing,  to  remark  upon  the  admir- 
able examples  of  murder,  from  the  collector’s  viewpoint, 
which  Scotland  has  afforded.  Or  is  it  merely  an  apparent 
eminence  due  to  the  interest  which  her  writers  show  in 
the  subject?  Her  most  famous  murderer  of  modern 
times,  William  Burke,  came  from  the  neighboring  island. 


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But  whatever  the  cause,  the  fact  is  testimony  to  the  law- 
abiding  spirit  of  the  Scotch;  only  where  murder  is  the 
exception  is  it  worthy  of  notice.  In  countries  where 
everyone  is  shooting,  stabbing,  and  engaging  in  assassina- 
tion, no  murders  can  happen  worth  five  minutes’  atten- 
tion. From  Sir  Walter  Scott,  through  Stevenson  and 
Andrew  Lang,  to  Mr.  Roughead,  Scotch  writers  have  col- 
lected murders  with  enthusiasm,  diligence  and  a nice 
taste.  The  theme  runs  through  Stevenson’s  novels  like  a 
scarlet  thread.  There  is  the  murder  of  Sir  Danvers 
Carew  by  Mr.  Hyde — would  that  I could  see  it  once 
more  enacted  on  the  stage  by  Richard  Mansfield!  It 
runs  through  the  “New  Arabian  Nights”  and  “Treasure 
Island” ; a famous  murder  is  one  of  the  chief  incidents  in 
“Kidnapped.”  Murder  stalks  abroad  in  “The  Merry 
Men”  and  in  “Markheim.”  It  is  found  in  “Weir  of 
Hermiston”;  its  spirit  is  in  “The  Ebb  Tide”  and  “The 
Beach  of  Falesa.”  And  who  that  has  once  read  “The 
Wrecker”  can  forget  the  moment  when  the  crew  of  the 
Currency  Lass  run  up  to  the  deck  of  Captain  Trent’s 
ship  into  “the  dusky  blaze  of  a sunset  red  as  blood”? 
Scotland  offers  magnificent  opportunities  for  the  collec- 
tor; it  was  the  sure  instinct  of  genius  which  laid  the  scene 
of  the  greatest  drama  in  English  in  that  country,  and 
made  its  King  and  Queen  hero  and  heroine  in  that 
mighty  tragedy  whose  theme  is  murder. 

American  writers,  with  two  great  exceptions,  have 
tended  to  neglect  this  subject.  These  are  Poe  and  Mark 
Twain.  It  must  have  been  noted  that  there  were  certain 
points  of  resemblance  between  the  murder  in  “The  Black 
Cat”  and  the  deed  of  Dr.  Crippen;  life  again  modelled 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  211 

itself  upon  art,  as  it  is  said  to  do.  In  Mark  Twain’s 
books,  one  recalls  the  extraordinary  scene  in  the  grave- 
yard in  “Tom  Sawyer,”  and  the  climax  of  “Pudd’nhead 
Wilson.”  In  the  latter  novel,  by  the  way,  the  fingerprint 
clew  made  perhaps  its  second  appearance  in  fiction.  Mark 
Twain  had  already  employed  it,  in  “Life  on  the  Missis- 
sippi.” Hawthorne  seems  strangely  to  have  neglected 
murder — although  I believe  there  is  a murder  in  “The 
Marble  Faun.”  This  was  a curious  omission  for 

The  furtive  soul  whose  dark  romance 
By  ghostly  door  and  haunted  stair, 

Explored  the  dusty  human  heart 
And  the  forgotten  garrets  there. 

The  subject  of  the  English  novelists  and  poets  is  too 
vast  even  to  enter  upon,  although  it  may  be  said  that 
Dickens  was  at  the  very  height  of  his  powers  when  he 
commenced  the  novel  which  centres  upon  murder.  Per- 
sons who  look  with  contempt  upon  “The  Mystery  of 
Edwin  Drood,”  and  the  controversy  whether  a murder 
was  actually  committed  or  only  planned,  will  never  attain 
a degree  of  intelligence  sufficient  to  become  respectable 
enthusiasts  upon  murder. 

I have  heard  some  prig  or  other  say — or  I have  read 
in  his  writings — that  all  known  murderers  are  stupid,  be- 
cause the  intelligent  ones  are  never  discovered.  As  well 
pretend  that  no  pictures  are  good  except  those  never 
painted ; no  songs  are  fine  except  the  ones  never  written 
nor  sung.  Of  course,  we  may  long  for  the  perfect,  the 
unattainable  murder  which  flees  before  our  approach,  as 
the  lover  in  Locker-Lamson’s  “Unrealized  Ideal”  saw  in 
his  dreams  the  face  of  the  maiden  never  looked  upon 


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in  waking  hours.  Somebody — Stevenson,  probably — 
says  that  certain  places  seem  to  cry  aloud  for  a murder; 
and  the  investigating  gentlemen  in  Mr.  Machen’s  “Three 
Impostors,”  coming  upon  the  empty  house,  fall  prey  to 
its  dismaji  suggestions.  “Here,”  says  one  of  them,  “where 
all  is  falling  into  dimness  and  dissolution,  and  we  walk 
in  cedarn  gloom,  and  the  very  air  of  heaven  goes  moulder- 
ing to  the  lungs,  I cannot  remain  commonplace.  I look 
at  that  deep  glow  on  the  panes,  and  the  house  lies  all  en- 
chanted; that  very  room,  I tell  you,  is  within  all  blood 
and  fire.” 

Only  through  the  omniscience  of  the  novelist  may  we 
learn  the  sensations  of  the  undiscovered  murderer.  One 
such  tale  was  for  a long  time  on  my  list  of  lost  stories; 
I had  read  it,  and  I remembered  where  and  when,  but  not 
for  a dozen  years  could  I find  it  once  more.  It  is  one  of 
the  best  bits  of  murder  fiction  I know:  “The  Curate  of 
Churnside,”  by  Grant  Allen.  The  Curate,  a delicate- 
handed Oxonian,  named  Walter  Dene,  decided  that  for 
his  own  prosperity  and  happiness  it  was  necessary  for 
him  to  remove  his  uncle,  the  Vicar.  He  did  it  with  reso- 
lution and  precision,  and  lived  happily  ever  after.  Read- 
ers, says  the  author,  who  thought  that  he  must  feel  remorse 
his  whole  life  long  were  “trying  to  read  their  own  emo- 
tional nature  into  the  wholly  dispassionate  character  of 
Walter  Dene.” 

The  study  of  murder  is  the  study  of  the  human  heart 
in  its  darkest,  strangest  moments.  Nothing  surpasses  it 
in  interest;  the  little  social  problems  which  agonize  the 
heroines  of  the  average  novel  make  their  characters  seem 
pallid  indeed  beside  a Lady  Macbeth  or  a Constance 


213 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 

Kent.  There  comes  a time  in  the  experience  of  such  folk 
when  their  eyes  look  upon  the  smoke  of  the  nether  pit. 
Much  of  modern  fiction  pretends  to  despise  such  a subject 
as  murder,  while  it  dabbles  its  feeble  hands  in  cup-and- 
saucer  sentiment,  or  else  in  the  sham  realism  of  the 
kitchen-sink. 

Of  no  such  pitiful  stuff  is  woven  the  tale  of  murder. 
Nothing  pale  and  thin  went  to  the  texture  of  that  story 
in  which  the  woman  looked  above  her  at  the  ceiling  and 
saw  the  slowly  increasing  stain  of  blood  on  the  plaster;  or 
that  in  which  the  two  friends  went  to  the  room  of  their 
enemy  to  keep  Christmas  Eve  together;  or  that  of  the 
woman  who  lay  awake  in  the  dead  hours  after  midnight 
and  heard  the  foot-steps  of  her  lodger  as  he  came  tip- 
toeing softly,  stealthily,  down-stairs,  and  out  by  the 
door.  Not  less  fascinating  because  it  occurred  in  real 
life,  rather  than  in  imagination,  was  the  moment  when 
the  slayer  of  Miss  Gilchrist  walked  calmly  along  the 
passage,  up  to  and  past  the  persons  who  had  surprised 
him  at  his  work,  and  then  out  into  the  darkness  forever; 
or  when  the  two  little  old  ladies,  with  their  gifts  of  cake 
and  wine,  stood  timidly  ringing  the  door-bell  outside  the 
apartment  where  Mr.  Rice  was  being  done  to  death. 
And  there  are  thousands  from  whose  minds  will  never 
wholly  vanish  the  spectacle  of  old  Andrew  Borden,  walk- 
ing slowly  toward  his  home  under  the  blinding  heat  of 
an  August  noonday.  He  reaches  his  home,  and  is  wel- 
comed therein,  but  never  did  any  wretched  creature  step 
more  haplessly  into  a slaughter-house.  His  wife  already 
lies  murdered,  and  his  own  time  of  life  rides  upon  the 
dial’s  point. 


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